


The Siren's Tongue

by DJWillyShakes



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: 1770s, 18th Century, American Revolution, Amnesia sort of, Atlantic Ocean, Boston Harbor, Brighton Harbor, Buckswashling, Clint misses the Boston Tea Party, Colonial America, England - Freeform, F/M, Family Angst, Frigga cameo, Frosthawk - Freeform, Gen, Golden Age of Pirates, Imperial Russia, Implied Catherine the Great, Implied!Steve Rogers, Implied!Tony Stark, M/M, Mermaids, Odin cameo, Pirate booty (hehe), Pirates, Sirens, Spain, Spideypool - Freeform, Thor is a cunt, Tongues, Vigo Harbor, boston tea party, buckynat - Freeform, swashbuckling, winterwidow - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-08
Updated: 2015-07-13
Packaged: 2018-03-11 01:03:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 43,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3310019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DJWillyShakes/pseuds/DJWillyShakes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Britain's colonies across the pond have decided they've had enough, and Clint Barton of the Boston militia is caught up in the dawn of a full-blown Revolution...which he promptly skips to stow away on a pirate ship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Grinning Reaper

            Clint Barton was a Patriot. One of the best. He would have been the best had he not been in Virginia during the Massacre, rather than attending the rallies like he was supposed to—but plantation owners’ pretty, redheaded daughters didn’t just court themselves. The important thing, as he’d explained to the other Sons of Liberty multiple times, was that he was in Boston _now_ , at the important part.

            Now that the redcoats had passed the Tea Act, they could no longer be ignored. Stark, the mouthy silversmith, came up with the plan. The captain of the Boston militia had taken little convincing to put it into action, and once he was satisfied no fish would be harmed, he’d even picked a date: a week before Christmas. The first step was already complete. Clint and three other Sons had been stationed at the wharf, posing as inspectors. Their job, from now until Christmas Eve, was to find and take note of the tea-toting British ships. It was, and would be, as Captain Rogers assured them over and over, potentially one of the most difficult, demanding, and important jobs in the history of the colonies.

            It was terribly boring work.

            The wharf, the incoming ships, the crews, the dock workers, everything stank of dead fish. Eighty percent of the job was walking through the louse-infested galleys of rickety ships while snaggle-toothed, half-blind sailors bumbled through inventory. The rest was staying awake long enough to make tallies. After the one, secretly exciting day, right at the start of the project, when all the British ships had been in port and they’d gathered all the necessary information, the job had become more of a punishment than an honour. And the money was garbage, too. Clint would have sold his soul to be in the back fields with the militia, criticizing their aim and barking orders with Rogers. More often than not, he fudged the numbers and snuck out to the pubs.

            But one day, as he was sitting on a dock post, fabricating sums, the job got interesting. A ship appeared on the horizon—as they were wont to do—but instead of going virtually unnoticed, it was met with hushed voices, horrified gasps, terrified muttering, and a few outright screams. Clint dropped his papers and stood on the post to watch as the thing glided into port, silently, like a ghost. A woman was fleeing the wharf, and he hopped down to ask, “What’s going on?”

            “That ship—“ She pointed, though she refused to lay eyes on it. “You see its hull? The flag it flies? It’s a pirate vessel.”

            “Pirates?” Clint frowned. “We’ve had pirates before. Sent them on their way pretty fast.”

            “Not just any pirates.” The woman shook her head, pulling on her bonnet. “ _The_ pirate. A man of legend. They say even the Devil fears making a deal with him.” She tore away from Clint’s hand, obviously shaken.

            “What’s his name?” he asked, before she could get too far.

            “No one knows.” She clutched at her shawl. “They just call him the Grinning Reaper.”

            The woman ran off. Clint bent down to pick up his papers, found his pen, and started toward the curious ship. He’d seen the heads of Williams and Pym bobbing away in the crowd, so the task of inspecting the “pirate ship” fell to him. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe the woman’s story—though in his experience, living legends had a tendency _not_ to live up to their legends—but he was intrigued, and, knowing how most pirates tended to be castoffs of Mother Britain, he thought he might as well try and strike up an alliance. Pirate captains, no matter how shrewd or how bloody, always responded well to bribes.

            The vessel seemed to loom over him as he approached. The hull was pitch black, though it appeared to be cast that way, rather than painted with actual pitch. The sails, fluttering serenely above him, were hemmed in gold. It was a large, fully-rigged barque, flying a black Jolly Roger bearing an unusual design: a grinning white skull, sinking its teeth into a bright red heart. The skull’s eyes seemed to glow red, and blood from the heart ran down its bony chin. A wave broke broadside against the gleaming black hull, drawing Clint’s attention to the golden letters on her stern: the _Siren’s_ _Tongue_. He wandered around the pier to see the maidenhead. She was a siren, a naked woman with a fish’s tail, which wasn’t unusual for the bow of a ship. What was strange was how she seemed to be cast from the same foreign black material as the hull, and her eyes had been gouged out. Her mouth was open, as though she’d been singing, and Clint could see the tongue had been cut away as well. Eyeless and voiceless, she looked to be screaming in agony, a chilling addition to an already intimidating vessel. Clint went back to the port side and knocked on the hull.

            No one answered. He sighed and knocked again, calling, “Inspection! Drop a ladder!”

            A burly man with a shock of greasy brown hair in a yellow rag lumbered over, rolling out a set of stairs. He was shirtless, with a barrel chest covered in dark hair and grubby brown trousers tied around his waist. An oddly wide sheath hung at either of his hips. He chewed with vigor on the end of a spicy-smelling cigar, and his eyes were hard and yellowish. He hoisted Clint aboard when he still had two steps to go, obviously impatient.

            “What’s the inspection fer?” the man grumbled, crossing his hairy, sun-hardened arms.

            “It’s standard for any ship comes into this port,” Clint replied smoothly, drawing out a new space on his tally board. “Just gotta get an idea of your inventory when you come in and before you push off.”

            “Not stayin’.” The man squinted at him. “Just pickin’ up rations. Gone by daybreak.”

            “Yeah, well, I still have to do the inspection…” Uneasy, Clint held out his hand to shake. “Clint Barton, of the Boston Wharf Patrol.”

            The man nearly crushed his hand. “Logan.”

            He nodded, making a note on the paper. “Logan what?”

            The man sucked on his cigar. “ _Mister_ Logan.”

            Clint blinked. “Right. What’s your position here?”

            “First mate.”

            He wrote that down too. “Can you take me belowdecks? I just have to look over your stocks.” Mister Logan grunted, which evidently meant yes, because he shuffled off to the cabin door, motioning for Clint to follow. He did, trying not to overjustify himself and failing miserably. “Everything you’ve got. Not just the basics. Every cabin—“

            Logan whipped around, lip curled in a snarl. “What’re you sayin’?”

            Clint froze, speechless.

            “Are you insinuatin’ we got somethin’ to hide, Mister Barton?” the first mate growled. The cigar dropped ash into his greying stubble.

            “No…?” Clearing his throat, Clint wiped a fleck of tobacco-froth off his nose. “Just tryin’ to give you an overview.”

            Logan squinted menacingly at him a little longer, then gave another assumedly positive grunt and opened the door to the belly of the ship. “Hold’s down that ladder.”

            “Mista’ Logan?” A small voice peeped from the bottom of the blackness. A thin, pale hand grabbed the deck, followed by a flickering light, and a boy poked his head out of the hold, laying a lamp on the deck. “Can I—oh, ‘ello.” He blinked at Clint from behind smeared, crooked glasses, pushing back his ratty leather hood. “Mista’ Logan?” The boy looked up. “What’s goin’ on?”

            “Inspection,” the first mate spat. “You take him, Cabin Boy.”

            “Oh—I—“ the boy stuttered.

            “Go on.” Logan scuffed his boot on the deck, all but stomping on the boy’s fingers. The small head disappeared down into the hold, along with the hand, and Clint heard a small thud. The first mate pushed Clint roughly toward the hold. “Take the lamp.”

            Clint took it, making it less than three steps down the stairs before Logan slammed the door behind him. In the dim light from the kerosene flame—which he was now very glad to have—he saw the cabin boy dusting himself off at the foot of the stairs. He was a thin, scraggly-looking lad, no more than fourteen or fifteen, dressed in hunks of leather sewn haphazardly together into a hooded cloak. He had frizzy black hair, like a reverse-coloured dandelion, and skin the colour of milk, with large, round green eyes that seemed to glow in the lamplight. He spoke like they did in the poor districts of London.

            The boy took the lamp and wiped some dirt from his nose. “Fank you. What are you inspectin’?”

            “Inventory.”

            “Right this way.” He followed the kid to a storeroom and started making tallies. The boy was silent the entire time, sitting on a water barrel, presumably to rest his skinny legs.

            Clint found himself rather disappointed with the contents of the hold. It seemed rather plain—clothing, food, water barrels, a few boxes of gunpowder and ammunition. Then again, he supposed, if it really were a pirate ship, there would be a separate hold for all the booty. He finished his tallies and looked to the cabin boy. “Is this all?”

            “Yes, sir. This’s all. We’re pickin’ up more supplies now, sir.” The cabin boy pushed off the water barrel. “Is that all you need, sir?”

            “Just about…” Suddenly, Clint had an idea. He flipped to a blank page. “Now I just need to check in with your captain. He has to sign off on how long you’ll be docked here.”

            The boy went the colour of ash. His lip trembled, and he shook his head violently. “No, sir, no, sir that’s no’ possible—“

            “Just for a second—”

            The cabin boy’s thin throat worked around a lump. His eyes were clouded with terror in the flickering lamplight. “No one sees the captain, sir. Never. ‘E gets off when we dock, and ne’er gets on again ‘til we hoist. An’ anyway, sir—‘e’s not to be seen.”

            Clint cocked an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

            “Well, I—“ The boy shivered and looked away. “B-between you and me…if ya ‘aven’t ‘eard the legends, well…they say ‘e’s a demon, sir, and me, I believe it. They say ‘e’s got black magic in ‘im, the way ‘e treats ‘is crew, and the way ‘is eyes—“

            The door at the top of the stairs banged open. “Cabin boy!”

            The boy shook himself and started for the deck. “Comin’, Mista’ Logan.”

            Clint grabbed his arm, on the edge of his seat. “What about his eyes?”

            “Sometimes, sir—I’ve seen it—“ The boy swallowed hard. “They turns _red_.” Then he yanked away and disappeared topside.

            Clint digested that for a bit. The elusive captain, the lack of treasure, the utterly alien look of the ship itself—it was all terrifically attractive, painted with the tantalizing air of mystery and excitement. It was the kind of rush he’d gotten from the Sons of Liberty, back when the society had held its meetings in the basement of a pub, by whisper and candlelight, with a secret password at the door and the ever-present threat of the Loyalist barkeep. He decided—and the prospect alone made his heart race—he would see the legendary captain for himself, to grab a taste of adventure before returning to the doldrums of the docks.

            He climbed the ladder back to the main deck, which was empty again. From the gun deck to the aft, he could hear thumping and Logan’s growly voice. Everything else was oddly deserted. At the starboard corner of the main deck, he saw a large chest, about six feet wide and deep and three tall. It wasn’t locked, containing nothing but some extra sailcloth. Clint decided it would make a suitable hiding spot, if he crouched. All he had to do was hide out until daybreak, when the captain would return. He could see the man of mystery, verify or dismiss the legend, and hop overboard before he got in too much trouble. Clint silently thanked his overworried mother for teaching him to swim, pushed the sailcloth aside to make himself a nest, and packed himself into the chest.

            With the lid closed, he had about a half-inch of space to see onto the deck, but he figured he could lift the lid about another inch without getting caught. He sat in silence, perfectly still, watching as Logan and the cabin boy paced around the deck, eventually deciding the intrusive inspector had left of his own accord. His legs and neck began to cramp as other crew members—stripes of colour to him—began to climb back onto the _Siren’s Tongue_. By sundown, he was almost entirely numb. Kept alert by the sheer need to _know_ , Clint didn’t even fidget. The night got darker and darker; the crew went away to their barracks. He just waited. At sunrise, he would have his answer.


	2. The Stowaway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint's hideout doesn't work out exactly the way he planned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter! It's a little late. I'm doing my best to get a new one out every Sunday.

            He fell asleep. Somewhere between staring out at the _Siren’s Tongue_ in pitch-darkness and waking up to overwhelming seasickness as the frigate was pummeled broadside by ocean waves, Clint had fallen asleep. It was an impressive feat, considering his entire lower body had gone completely numb about three hours after he’d decided to hide, and the night air blew through the porous wood of his hiding-place, chilling him to the bone. But it was also terrifying, because the sunlight winking through the cracks in the chest was full and bright rays of high noon, and the rocking of the _Tongue_ was too deep to be attributed to the small breakers of the wharf. Daybreak had come and gone; the pirate ship was out at sea.

            And so was Clint Barton.

            Suddenly the mysterious captain was the last thing on his mind. Clint was now trapped in a tiny chest with some sailcloth and no options. He was hungry, thirsty, cramped, overwhelmed with nausea, and his bladder quickly reminded him of a few other needs that were significantly more difficult to take care of in a box. The _Siren’s Tongue_ had been sailing for hours, which meant swimming to shore was nothing less than suicide. He knew there was a dinghy, dangling from the rigging above the starboard bow. He thought he’d seen oars in it. But getting to the dinghy meant getting out of the box, which meant revealing himself as a stowaway on a pirate ship with a captain rumoured to revel in bloodshed and a first mate confirmed to be a grumpy brute. It occurred to him he could also surrender himself to the crew, but Clint quickly attested he’d rather pee himself in a storage crate than give up so easily. Of course, after a few minutes of thinking, he idiotically sneezed, and the choice was made for him.

            Light streamed into the crate, interrupted only by a silhouette Clint could do nothing but blink at helplessly. There was a sound like metal on metal and a voice snapped, “Who the hell are you?”

            Clint stared. His discoverer was a woman, with curly red hair pulled back by a grey bandanna. She wore black-and-red-striped trousers tucked into black leather boots, and a black leather corset tied loosely over a dirty white blouse. Her belt was hung with leather pouches and a golden hourglass filled with red sand. She was rather beautiful, with full lips, a heart-shaped face, and a figure like the timepiece dangling from her belt, but he wouldn’t notice that until much later, as she also had a very large knife, and was currently aiming it at his throat.

            “I—I—“ he stammered. Ten-inch serrated blades gave him stage fright.

            “Get out of there,” she ordered.

            He did, unscrunching himself and stepping out gingerly onto the deck. His muscles complained, and he nearly fell over before the blood rushed back to his feet. Clint held up his hands, never taking his eyes off the woman’s knife. “Okay,” he muttered, offering a smile to try and placate her, “this looks bad.”

            “I’m only gonna ask one more time,” she said with deadly calm. “Who _are_ you?”

            He swallowed, determined to keep his voice from shaking. “My name’s Clint Barton, miss. I work on the wharf in Boston.”

            “You’re a little far from the docks, Mister Barton.” Her jaw was set, her eyes boring into him. “What are you doing on the _Siren’s Tongue_?”

            “I was, uh—“ Good lies were few and far between with cold steel an inch from his jugular. “I was sent aboard to do a routine inspection…I-I hid to get away from my foreman. I d-didn’t want—“

            “Sure you did.” She didn’t lower the knife, tearing her eyes away from him to call over her shoulder. “LOGAN!”

            The hulking, square-jawed first mate clumped over. “S’matter?”

            “Stowaway.”

            Mister Logan did some more aggressive squinting and snorted, “Yer the inspector, aren’cha?”

            Clint nodded, glancing between the first mate’s sharp yellow eyes and the woman’s sharper knife.

            Logan sighed heavily. “I s’pose you wanna keep this one, too, Widow?”

            She scowled. “Just hold him.”

            Before Clint had time to react, the brawny pirate’s arms closed around his waist, lifting him off his feet. He flailed and kicked a little, only to have the air squeezed deftly out of his lungs. The woman—Widow—fished a length of rope out of her pocket and darted around behind him, binding his ankles and arms up to the elbows. Logan dropped him back onto the deck with a thud. His head banged on the wood, dizzying him. Once again trapped, Clint eavesdropped on the two to distract himself from his screaming thirst and other needs.

            “Whadda I look like, the Spanish Inquisition?” Logan was growling. “Take him to the Reaper. Gets rid of him fast.”

            “Please. You know what he’ll say.” Widow rolled her eyes. “Stowaways fall under the category of ‘trivial matters’.”

            “Then _you_ take care of it, Quartermaster.” The first mate pulled another cigar from his pocket and bit off the end. “That’s yer job, ain’t it?”

            At this point, Clint decided he could at least free the dinghy and drift to shore, and started crawling toward the upper deck. A second later, the saw-like knife _thunk_ ed into the wood, two inches from his nose. “Stay where ya are, bub,” the first mate warned him. Clint very wisely decided to obey.

            Widow let out her breath slowly. “I’ll deal with him,” she said finally. “But tell the Reaper. And if he wants it handled a certain way, tell him he has the rest of today to let me know.” Logan nodded, stomping belowdecks. She crossed back to Clint, dragging him up by the collar of his shirt. “So, Mister Barton,” she hissed, looking him over, “Let’s see how you beg.” Ripping her knife free from the deck, she pressed the teeth against his neck again, this time letting them bite. “Give me one good reason not to throw you overboard right now.”

            “I, uh—“

            She pressed harder on the blade. Tiny dots of blood appeared at the teeth, but didn’t run. “Just so you know, the only right answer is, ‘I’m a surgeon’.”

            “You, uh, don’t have a surgeon?” Clint asked innocently, trying to lean away from the knife without toppling over.

            “No.” She grabbed his hair to hold him steady. “Are you one?”

            “Uh…no.” He winced. “I’m a landlord. And a dock inspector. I was just…kinda…hoping you’d rather not expend the energy to kill me?”

            Widow scrutinized him. Then she retracted her knife, throwing him back onto the deck by his hair. “So you’re a coward?”

            “Nah…” Clint struggled to sit up. “I’m just a really bad planner.”

            Wiping her blade clean on the sleeve of her blouse, Widow sat on a nearby barrel, still studying him. “What _was_ your plan, exactly?”

            “Well, I…” He sighed. “I was hoping to get a look at your captain.”

            She frowned. “The captain.”

            “Yeah. They call him the Grinning Reaper?” He managed to worm his way up to sitting. “People in port seemed to be pretty scared of this ship…’cause of him. I wanted to see what all the fuss is about. The man behind the legend.”

            “I see…Well, I hate to disappoint you.” Throwing one leg up on the barrel, she crossed her arms and gave him a stern look. “But there is no _man_ behind the legend.” With a sniff and a great sense of grandeur, she tossed her hair. “ _I_ am the one they call the Grinning Reaper.”

            He stared at her for a moment. Then he snorted. “No, you’re not.”

            With a sigh of disgust, Widow stepped off the barrel. “No, I’m not. But prisoners usually fall for that.”

            “The first mate keeps callin’ you ‘Widow’,” Clint pointed out. “And your cabin boy said the captain was a man.”

            She looked confused. “Cabin boy?”

            “Yeah, I talked to him when I was doing the inspection. He brought me down into the hold—“

            Widow crossed her arms, cocking one dark eyebrow. “We don’t have a cabin boy.”

            He gaped at her.

            “Although…” She considered. “We could probably use one.” Widow bent down to look him in the eye. “How are your skills with a mop?”

            “Not as good as my other skills,” he muttered. “But—“

            “Cabin boy?” she asked, “or shark bait?”

            He swallowed. “Cabin boy.”

            With a flash of steel, Widow cut his bonds. She whistled to a mate and sent him belowdecks. “Welcome to the _Siren’s Tongue,_ Mister Barton.” Yanking him to his feet, she finally sheathed the blade. “You’ve already met Logan—our first mate and sailing master. I’m the boatswain and quartermaster. You may call me—“

            “Widow?” he guessed.

            She scowled. “Widow’s a nickname. _You_ call me Mistress Natasha. And if you do that, keep your nose as clean as the deck, and don’t step on any toes—I may be able to convince the Reaper to take you home.” The mate scurried back with a mop and bucket, which Natasha pushed into Clint’s hands. “Start on the forecastle. And get your shoulders into it—we’ve seen a lot of seagull traffic lately.”  


	3. The Crew

            Clint had been mopping the _Siren’s Tongue_ for more than a week—every nook and cranny—and still had yet to see the enigmatic captain. Which was only the fifth- or sixth-most frustrating thing about his newfound indentured servitude. The first was the work itself—hours either in the beating sun or the insufferable stuffiness of the hold, swabbing in circles while the crew elbowed him out of the way and swung the sails all around. He often narrowly avoided getting brained with a swinging boom, and a few times, didn’t avoid it at all. The second was Mistress Natasha. She ran the ship with an iron fist, barking orders and climbing through the ropes to menace crew members who didn’t obey. She saw to it he never got more than ten minutes’ rest, except at night—and even then, she woke him at the crack of dawn to buff the cannon. The rest were members of the crew.

            Clint met all the crew members at one point or another, but very few of them stood out. Natasha told him most of the crew were escaped convicts, usually brawlers, which was why they didn’t talk much, but there were a few for whom he had a hard time believing that. Some of the crewmen, especially the sailmen, were big and rough enough to be prisoners, but most were smaller, thinner, and looked more like embezzlers than barfighters. One or two even wore glasses.

            The officers, on the other hand, were twice as bizarre, as if to make up for what the crewmen lacked in vibrance. There was Logan, of course, the brooding, growling, half-beast first mate. If a good navigator was worth his weight in gold, Natasha had explained, Logan was worth four of them. He had a sense of direction to rival a hunting dog, and seemed to have a sixth sense for inclement weather, sometimes calling for a battening of the hatches before the sky was even dark. Sure enough, by the time they had the last sail gathered up, the waves would be swelling and lightning would crackle across the blackening clouds.

            Then there was the master gunner. One look at him and Clint suddenly knew why the _Siren’s Tongue_ was so desperate for a surgeon. The man was covered in scabs. Some dark and dry, some red and peeling, some oozing a delightfully revolting yellow. He was bald as an egg, dressed in black leather trousers and a shirt made of patches of at least twenty different red cloths. He had an infectious, jovial smile, and assured Clint that was the _only_ infectious thing about him. Clint wasn’t sure. He shook the man’s hand when meeting him, out of politeness, but made a conscious though—he hoped—subtle effort never to touch him again. The gunner was a quirky fellow with a warm, if slightly morbid sense of humour, who got Clint’s attention right away with the very second thing he said:

            “I never miss.”

            Clint grinned. “Is that so?”

            “Oh, believe me.” The gunner, whose name was Wilson, grinned back. “I never take a shot unless I know the _Tongue_ can land it. Just like swordfighting.” He patted the sheath at his waist. “It’s not about clanking away on the other guy’s blade. It’s about hitting the target.”

            “No, no, no, no—“ Shaking his head, Clint leaned against one of the heavy black cannon. “’I never miss’ doesn’t mean ‘I only take shots I know I can make’. It means you can land any shot, from any angle, in any condition.”

            “Oh?” Wilson cocked a scabby lack of eyebrow. “And what would a swabber know about marksmanship?”

            “Best shot in the Boston militia.” Clint did his best not to preen. “And in any of the colonies.”

            “So you can hit a lame duck from ten yards? Come on, boy. You’re on pirate terms now.” Wilson scoffed. “We don’t play around with those titchy little Patriot muskets.”

            “Neither do I.” Clint snorted. “I’m strictly a bow-and-arrow type.”

            “Is that so…?”

            “WADE!”

            The quartermaster’s call made him stiffen. “Ah, shit.”

            Widow swung over on an errant boom, crouching on it like a cat burglar. “Quit distracting him.”

            The gunner smirked. “I was only making polite conversation, Mistress.”

            “Get back to work,” she snapped. “Both of you.”

            Wilson gathered up his sponge and climbed out onto the cannon’s nose, ramming it down the barrel. Clint watched, a little in awe. The gunner hadn’t bothered to retract the artillery onto the ship, so he was dangling out over the water, holding on with his legs alone, as the _Tongue_ pitched and rolled on the waves.

            “ _Barton!_ ”

            “Yeah, yeah,” he grumbled, grabbing his bucket and rope.

            When the gunner wasn’t risking his life for the noble pursuit of cannon-cleaning, he was in the bulkhead, bothering the carpenter. The carpenter, as Clint saw when he was sent below to sweep up sawdust, was a skinny young man with a shock of wavy brown hair. He wore huge round glasses that magnified his eyes until they were round and luminous, like an owl’s. The most distinguishing feature of the carpenter’s cabin was its population of spiders. There were many.

            When Clint went in, the man scarcely seemed to notice, hunched over a page of sketches and muttering to himself. He moved around slowly, relishing the break from the sun, and swept the ample piles of sawdust into a gunnysack. Mistress Natasha had told him sawdust was a surprisingly valuable tool at sea, used for everything from gunpowder fuses to soaking up vomit. Clint took a small brush and reached up to a high shelf, sweeping out the dust between tools. A spider ran onto his hand.

            Yanking his hand away with a yelp, he shook the crawly thing off onto the ground and lifted his foot to kill it. The carpenter had other ideas; leaping up from his desk, he shouted, “NO!” and threw himself onto his knees, gathering the tiny eight-legged monstrosity into his hand.

            “They’re not pests,” he told Clint’s mask of confusion, letting the spider go in a dark corner of his cabin. “They kill the real pests—the lice and mites and things, the ones that bring disease.” Brushing his sweaty flop of hair from his eyes, the carpenter held out the same hand he’d used to rescue the spider for Clint to shake. “You must be the stowaway. My name’s Parker.”

            “Barton.” He did _not_ shake, still feeling the little hairy feet dancing up and down his wrist. Clint turned back to the shelves and the pursuit of sawdust. The carpenter went forlornly back to his desk. After a while, Clint paused. “Hey—you might know this. The ship—why is it black? What’s it made of?”

            “Oh, the coating?” Parker turned in his seat. “It’s called obsidian. It’s formed in the belly of a volcano. It was the captain’s idea. Obsidian is like glass, so it’s pretty light, and it’s smooth. It lets the _Siren’s Tongue_ cut through the water, and it only needs to be buffed every once in a while. Barnacles can’t grow on it, and if something hits a tile and it shatters, we have plenty stockpiled for replacements.”

            “So that’s why the ship’s black.”

            “Oh, no.” The carpenter laughed. “The ship’s black because the Reaper thinks it makes a better impression—and he’s right. Before we coated her in obsidian, the _Tongue_ was painted black. Thank God we found an alternative; the decks used to be hotter than hellfire.”

            “Huh.” Clint stuck his brush back in his belt. “And the crew? What’s their story?”

            “You mean why are they the worst conversationalists in the world?” Parker cocked an eyebrow. “You’ll have to ask the Widow about that.”

            “She told me they’re ex-cons.”

            He snorted and turned back to his desk. “Something like that.”

            Another spider began crawling across the ceiling. It passed over Clint and he grimaced. “I, uh, I think I’m done here.”

            The carpenter didn’t look up.

            Clint’s sleeping arrangements were, he thought, the best on the ship. Most of the crew went belowdecks, except for one or two of Logan’s mates, who stayed up to steer. There was a fighting top, a platform halfway up the foremast, like a lower version of the crow’s nest, which was never used. For lack of space in the barracks, Mistress Natasha had given him a tarp and some extra clothing and told him to use it as a bed. It was drafty and cramped, and the foremast punched right through the center of it, but the top had a railing four feet high, which gave him plenty of privacy when lying down, and was in such a position as to give him spectacular views of both the ship itself and the ocean, wide and sparkling off the bow. Late at night, when the ship master’s mates were bored into silence and Clint was tossed awake by the bucking mast, he sometimes sat up and watched off the bowsprit into the dark water, just him and the screaming, eyeless maidenhead.

            Sometimes, in the early morning, if Mistress Natasha forgot to get him, he sat up in the top and watched the door of the captain’s cabin. In fact, he watched the door of the captain’s cabin frequently. Anytime he was topside, he found himself glancing over his shoulder almost minutely to see if someone came out. Logan went in and out once, and once a crewmember wandered in, though Clint never saw him return. Otherwise, the door was unyielding, silent, and still. Eventually, he gave up on it.

            On the tenth day of his thrall (as far as he could reason), Clint was busy slapping the mop on the quarter deck, to the far aft of the vessel, when he saw Mistress Natasha slide down a rope from the crow’s nest, stand on the hatch at the center of the main deck, and call, “DROP ANCHOR!”

            The scabby gunner helped two dead-eyed crewmen pry open the hatch on the side of the _Tongue_. A heavy black chain rattled out of the hole, sending the wickedly sharp black anchor spiraling into the depths of the sea. The ship shuddered as it hooked on a crag of the ocean floor, the hull groaning as the bow swung around. Logan twisted the wheel with a grunt, and the vessel stopped, suddenly, drifting placidly. The Widow, hands on her hips, nodded appreciatively and called, “ALL HANDS!”

            So Clint could see there was a crew of about twenty, including the five officers. There was only one woman, aside from Mistress Natasha. They stood in lines up against both rails, waiting for orders.

            Natasha snapped her fingers at the carpenter and pointed up. Parker nodded. He took off his glasses, neatly folding in the temples, and tucked them in the pocket of his brown leather waistcoat. Then he looked up into the lines, took a deep breath, and shot straight up. He was a one-man sail crew, leaping from boom to boom, shimmying up the main mast and reeling in the sails, swinging around and around on the lines to bind them tightly to the mast. Once that was tied off, he crawled up the mast to the crow’s nest, stood on the railing, and flung himself at the mizzen to do it all over again. He was incredibly acrobatic, at times running vertically up the masts to leap off backwards and wrestle in an errant boom. Clint was stunned. The rest of the crew seemed unfazed. When Parker finally dropped out of the lines, stopping on the forecastle to catch his breath, the Widow went on.

            “We’re anchored tonight.” She scanned over the crew, pinning each man with her gaze like an insect in a display case. “Captain’s orders. Tomorrow, we set off for Spain.”

            Murmurs of assent disguised the sound of the heavy bolt in the captain’s door sliding free of the latch. The door swung open, and out he stepped.

            “Thank you, Widow.” The voice was like molten silver, clover honey, and velvet.

            She nodded and stepped down from the hatch. The captain, tall and lean, stepped up.

            “One further act of business, men.” The accent was plummy. Upper-class. From Mother Britain. Not grungy and cluttered like pirates’ dialects. “As you well know, we have a stowaway in our midst.” The captain looked directly at Clint, and his heart stopped.

            For one, his attire was bizarre: a long, high-necked coat of hardened black leather, fitted with gold buttons and clasps; woolen, charcoal-grey trousers and waistcoat, highly impractical for everyday use. Black boots and a wide-brimmed hat that looked more expensive than Clint’s entire house. The shirt, peeking from the cuffs and collar of the jacket, was deep, emerald green. Dangling from his waist was a sickle, its crescent-shaped blade lined with gold, the handle wrapped in something that shone like silk. For another, he wore very little jewelry, for a pirate captain—only a gleaming emerald stud in each earlobe. And, unlike his grubby, sweaty, frankly pungent crew, he was relatively clean.

            But the man himself shocked Clint, not his accoutrements. Because although the wild black curls were combed, not frizzing up like dandelion fuzz, though the pale skin was more porcelain than sallow milk, he had undoubtedly seen the captain before. The cabin boy’s glowing green eyes were unmistakable. They met Clint’s own, brimming with malice, dominance, and, oddest of all, amusement. The captain licked his lips and smiled, and it was predatory, digging cold claws of fear into Clint’s spine.

            “Come down, little runaway,” purred the Grinning Reaper. “Let us meet at last.”


	4. The Captain Himself

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's late, I know. I have a couple other fics going that will be showing up soon. Blame them. ^^"

             “Come here, my little renegade,” the captain pressed when Clint found himself rooted to the deck. “I dislike to wait.”

             Leaving his mop to clatter on the floor, Clint slunk down the ladder to the main deck, feeling very much like a beaten dog. The captain stepped off the hatch and towered over him, obviously egged on by the eyes of the crew.

             “Clinton Barton.” The voice drew the words in golden ink across Clint’s face. “An English name for a colonial miscreant.”

             Clint just swallowed, keeping his head down and his eyes on the wicked blade of the sickle.

             The captain thought for a while. “Are you a Loyalist, boy?”

             He flinched. “Huh?”

             There was a sneer in the Reaper’s voice. “A Tory, a Lobster-lover, a weak-minded, brainless child kissing the feet of Mother Britain. Are you a Loyalist?”  

             “Uh…” Clint wasn’t sure what the right answer was. On the one hand, the captain seemed to have obvious disdain for the English, in which case it would probably help him to declare himself a Patriot. On the other hand, the Reaper was very obviously English, and pirates, as far as Clint knew, had a tendency to lie. He swallowed. “I, uh…”

             The Reaper cocked an eyebrow, glancing around at his crew. “Oh, dear. Are the questions too hard?”

             Clint snorted, grinning in spite of himself. “Do you want the truth, or the little white lie that’ll hopefully keep you from killing me?”

             “The truth, Mr Barton.” Long, pale fingers caressed the handle of the sickle. “If you please.”

             He swallowed and managed to summon up a little dumb bravery. “In that case, captain—“ Clint beamed up at him. “I’m a Patriot, and damned proud.”

             “How fortunate.” The Reaper’s lip curled. “If you were a Loyalist, I would have thrown you off the bow without a second thought.” Yawning, he stepped down from the hatch. “However, I would have preferred you a moderate. Rebels are a self-righteous sort. Dreadfully boring.”

             Clint didn’t have a proper response to that. He glanced around at the officers. Mistress Natasha was feigning disinterest, leaning against the foremast. Logan was growling at the wheel. Wilson was stifling a laugh, leaning against Parker, who was cleaning his glasses. Based on their reactions, he assumed the captain’s behaviour was business as usual.

             Two fingers, skeletally pale and colder than he’d expected, tipped up his chin. The Reaper’s eyes searched his. “How has my boatswain been feeding you? Throwing you a bucket of scraps every few hours?”

             Very often, Mistress Natasha had made a point of hitting him in the head with rock-hard loaves of bread. Clint nodded. “More or less.”

             “And she’s given you a job, I see.” Glancing back to the quarter deck, the Reaper cocked an eyebrow. “Room and board for blood and sweat?”

             He nodded again.

             “Well, they don’t call her the quarter _master_ for nothing.” The captain shot Natasha a look much like that of a disappointed parent. “However, the Widow can be _so_ softhearted, and very often forgets her place.” The look turned withering. Clint actually saw Natasha flinch. Then the eyes turned on him, burning, and he saw why. “Look up,” the Reaper spat.

             He did, almost immediately, though he wasn’t sure why or where to look.

             “Do you see that flag?”

             He did. At the tip of the main mast, the white skull chomped enthusiastically on its bleeding-heart snack, fluttering in the breeze. Clint shivered a little under the Reaper’s relentless gaze. “Yes…?”

             Fingers fastened in his hair. The Reaper yanked his head back down and hissed, “Do you know what it _means_?”

             Clint thought. At first, he was at a loss, knowing very little about pirate flags. But then he remembered, back when he was a boy, waiting down at the docks for his useless father to stumble out of the tavern. There had been a dock worker, a scraggly old longshoreman the size of a mountain, who used to tell stories to him and his brother to keep them entertained while they waited. Stories of sea monsters, mermaids, pirates, disappearing ships—all nautical, all in first-person, all probably fabricated. The old-timer’s favourite story was the time he’d been captured by the infamous Blackbeard when he was just a teenager, and his favourite part was describing the ship—including its Jolly Roger, a dancing skeleton spearing a heart. And the old-timer had told them, over and over, what that meant.

             “I’m guessing,” he said slowly, “it means you don’t give quarter?”

             If the Reaper was surprised, or impressed, he didn’t show it. “That’s correct.” In a flash, he threw Clint down onto his belly. Grinding the heel of his boot into Clint’s back to pin him to the deck, the Reaper began slowly, deftly untying the gleaming sickle from his belt. “I never give quarter. And I never take prisoners.” His fingers tightened in Clint’s hair again, drawing his head back. “Which leaves you, Mr Barton, in a rather unpleasant situation.”

             The sickle was freezing cold on his exposed throat. Clint swallowed and felt the fine blade nip painlessly against his skin, sharpened to perfection. Curiously, in this position, he found it difficult to find the right words. “Is…uh…Is there anything I could do to—er—change your mind?” He never took his eyes off the blade, panting a little.

             The Reaper laughed, low and soft, and it was colder than the vicious blade. “Beg.”

             Clint cringed. The idea was revolting. He had always assumed Stark would be the one to fall victim to his own stubbornness, but then again, Clint had _also_ assumed he had enough basic intelligence not to get caught by pirates in the first place, and thereby forced to beg for his life. He gritted his teeth. “…Please.”

             “I’m sorry?” The blade inched closer. “I didn’t catch that.”

             Frustrated, he raised his voice. “ _Please_.”

             Closer. “More.”

             “Please don’t kill me…please have mercy…”

             “ _More_.”

             Clint took a deep breath. “I won’t hurt anybody—I won’t do any harm. Just don’t kill me. Please. I’ll—“ He paused. Not that. He was better than that. Then the tip of the blade bit into the back of his neck, stinging a little, and he changed his mind. “I-I’ll do anything. I’ll _give_ you anything. I swear.”

             For a terrifying moment, the Reaper didn’t move. Slowly, he drew the blade away, releasing Clint’s hair to tie it back in place. Relieved, Clint let his head drop forward, clunking his forehead against the deck. The Reaper kept his foot on Clint’s back, inspecting his nails. “I thought as much. I abhor your stubbornness, Mr Barton, as I do your tongue.” Swiftly, he kicked Clint in the ribs, throwing him onto his back before pulling him up by the collar. “But your obedience, however reluctant, now—that I could get used to.” The Reaper reached out a hand, and a crew member quickly brought him a length of rope. With agonizing precision, he bound Clint’s wrists just a hair too tight, leaving about four feet of rope as a lead, and yanked on them experimentally. The Patriot immediately stumbled, and the captain grinned. “Excellent. Widow?”

             She practically ran forward. “Yes?”

             “Take him to the brig. Until we dock in Spain, I don’t want him seeing the light of day.” He placed the lead in her hand and waved them away.

             “Aye, aye, captain.”

             Clint followed miserably for a few steps before the Reaper caught his shoulder. “Be sure to behave, my little troublemaker,” the captain purred, breath hot on his ear. “Or you’ll never see your homeland again.”

             “Are you in trouble?” Clint asked once they were belowdecks. “Y’know, for not immediately killing me?”

             Natasha shook her head. “You’ll learn pretty soon—the Reaper changes his mind a lot. He just decided to execute you today. Next week, he’ll probably try again, so practice your begging. He likes that.” She unlocked the cast-iron door and nudged him into the tiny, filthy room of the brig. “That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t still watch yourself. The captain’s mood changes about as reliably as the wind. If you don’t want to be marooned, sold to Gypsies, or fed to the crew, I suggest you play along.”

             Clint frowned, trying to work free of his bindings. “That ‘feeding to the crew’ thing…does that happen a lot?”

             “Come here.” She reached through the bars, sawing at the ropes with her knife.

             “…Mistress Natasha?”

 


	5. The Chef

            Since he was belowdecks, cut off from the sun save a small porthole by the ceiling of his cell, he relied on his mealtimes to keep track of time. The first came after the crew’s breakfast but before their dinner, and the second came after their dinner but before dark. (Pitch-dark, that is. The brig was in a perpetual state of dark.)

            That was how Clint met the fifth and final officer staffing the Siren’s Tongue: the cook. He quickly learned the man preferred to be called chef. He was French. Clint had to commend the Reaper on his fabulously multicultural staff. Natasha was Russian, though she hid it well; Wade was from Pennsylvania, and though he didn’t know Captain Rogers personally, Clint discovered, he did know the family. Parker was a Scot, though educated in Germany, and Logan was from somewhere in the far North. Rumours circulated that he had lived in the wild woods above the colonies, in a small cabin, and hunted moose before joining the crew.

            The chef, however, was French, and exceedingly so. He smelled like an onion and had beady little eyes that always seemed to glitter suspiciously. And he cooked like an angel. Somehow, the man could craft linguini with cream sauce out of salt pork and rum and make it not only edible, but downright enjoyable.

            Clint’s first night in the brig, he didn’t do much but sit on the small hard bench and squint at the thick porthole, trying to get a sense of what he might be missing topside. The visitor caught him off guard.

            “Bon soir, bon soirée,” drawled the chef, carrying a large, cracked dish hidden by a platter cover that seemed to have done its fair share of time in Davy Jones’ locker. He unlocked the jail door, holding the plate high in the air, and whisked into the cell, booting Clint from the bench and dressing up the simple plank with a place setting on a red-and-white-checked napkin.

            Clint had taken lessons in French from an uncle who had fought in the war against the Indians. He tried to remember them. “Eh...Bonjour, monsieur...qui êtes-vous?”

            “Your accent,” the chef replied, setting down the dish, “is hilarious.” He bent down and lifted the dish cover with a great flourish. “Voici--linguine with cream sauce, pork, and haricots verts. Canned, of course, désolé.”

            Clint inspected it. For nautical fare, it looked surprisingly normal--in fact, better than most of his meals back home. “Mercy. Uh--merci.”

            “Bien sur.” Inexplicably, the chef was now outside the cell, and the door was closed and bolted. “So...you’re the Reaper’s new plaything.”

            “Plaything?” Clint’s stomach flipflopped, partly from resentment, partly from something he couldn’t quite identify. “I don’t know about that.”

            “Oh, don’t let it bother you. He plays with everybody...one way or another.” The chef sat on the three-legged stool usually reserved for the shockingly inattentive guard. “You should worry when he starts ignoring you, Monsieur…”

            “Barton.”

            “LeBeau.”

            “Pleasure.”

            “Oui.”

            Feeling the chef’s deep-set black eyes on him, Clint started eating. The pork was salted for preservation on the seas, but the cream cut it so it wasn’t overpowering. Compared to the bread rolls and jerky strips he’d been living on, it was heaven.

            “Vous l’aimez?”

            He nodded, mouth full.

            “Good.” Chef LeBeau stretched out on the stool. He had orangey hair escaping from a patched toque and a ruddy complexion. His clothes were more appropriate for a harlequin--all purple and red and striped. “When you finish, cover the plate and put it in the hall. The guard will get it.” He got up to leave.

            “Wait--” Clint swallowed a hasty mouthful. “How long am I gonna be in here? Is the captain really gonna leave me here til we get to Spain?”

            “Hard to say.” LeBeau sat down, pulling a deck of cards from his pocket and shuffling absent-mindedly. “It may be longer, it may be shorter. If someone steps out of line, the Reaper may execute you to set an example. Or he may forget about you. Mistress Natasha seems to like you, and Logan does too.”

            He snorted, cocking an eyebrow. “You can tell?”

            “Oh, sure. Our navigator isn’t as stoic as he looks. You’re the first person he’s liked in a long time. The first prisoner ever.”

            Clint slurped another mouthful of pasta. “I thought you guys didn’t take prisoners?”

            “We don’t.” LeBeau’s eyes never left his cards as they whiffed through his fingers, seemingly of their own accord. “If the Reaper didn’t like you, you’d have been overboard the minute you were discovered.” He grinned. “Or lashed to the mast for the gulls.”

            Shuddering, Clint licked off his fork. “He likes me?”

            “Don’t sound so proud.” The chef rolled his eyes. “I’m sure he despises you as a person, but as a Patriot...well, that was a good move, lying to him like that.”

            “Why?” He scowled. “And I wasn’t lying.”

            “Sure you weren’t,” LeBeau teased. “The Reaper hates the royal family of England. The king especially. Can’t say why, but he does. Hates ‘em with a vengeance. He’s probably glad to have a kindred spirit--one who isn’t a Frenchman,” he added with a sheepish grin. “Parker loves the kingdom--that’s not why he left. And Wilson can’t be bothered to care about either side. He follows the money, the lunatic.” He pointed to the empty dish, all but licked clean. “Finished?”

            Clint nodded, passing it back through the bars. “What’s his real name? I mean, I know he’s the Grinning Reaper, but--”

            “Oh, non, non, non--” LeBeau shook his head. “Don’t play around with that. Only the officers know even pieces of the man behind the legend, and we’re sworn to secrecy. The last imbecile who betrayed? The Reaper hacked off all his limbs, tied up the wounds, and dangled him from the bowsprit til he starved. And that,” the chef added with another unnerving grin. “is why we no longer have un docteur.”

            “You don’t seem afraid of him, though,” Clint pointed out. “Not like Natasha.”

            “La Veuve?” LeBeau laughed. “Ah, but she made the mistake of crossing him. They didn’t always call her the Widow. Still,” he added as an afterthought. “All the officers are here by choice. I take the captain as a necessary evil--et franchement, there isn’t an Englishman alive who can claim to be a better sailor. And I could never work on a French ship.”

            “Why not?”

            Grinning, LeBeau took up the empty plate. “They would complain about my cooking.”

 

            He languished in the brig for eleven long, boring, not thoroughly unpleasant days. There was certainly less expected of him there. The work topside had left him sore, blistered, and berated. The brig was monotonous, and the only people he saw were LeBeau and the occasional taciturn guard. But, for the most part, he was grateful to have the time off…

            ...until it started storming.

            Clint found out about the storm in the simplest of ways: he’d been sleeping. The brig was in the uppermost level of the _Tongue_ ’s hold, so it was subject to the lion’s share of bucking and rocking on the waves, and the tumult threw him from his light, fitful sleep on the bench into a heap on the floor. After that, it was all he could do to keep from bouncing about in the hold like a rag doll. He hooked his arms and legs around the bars of the door and held on for dear life. Thankfully, the tossing of the ship no longer sent him tumbling, but, after a particularly ugly crack of lightning, the _Tongue_ breached high over a wave at the bow, and his head snapped forward onto the cast-iron bars, knocking him out cold.

            When he woke, he was dizzy, and his vision was blurry. Vaguely, he registered the sounds of boots tapping in the corridor, and the key scraping in the lock. Iron grips, cold as ice, fastened around his wrists, wrenching him free of the bars. He was dragged, the heels of his boots grinding against the floor, somewhere deeper in the ship. There was softer lighting within, and a warm, spicy, smoky scent that counteracted the otherwise damp and salty sting of the _Tongue’_ s lower compartments.

            A shadow passed over his face, followed quickly by a tonne and a half of freezing cold brine splashing down from above, most of which he inhaled. Coughing and hacking, Clint sat bolt upright, pawing at his stinging eyes. Squinting through the burning layer of salt, he saw the captain perched on an ornately-carved desk, toying with a long silver pipe.

            “Good morning,” the Reaper said tauntingly. “I trust you slept well, despite the storm.”

            Unable to muster anything but an inarticulate groan, Clint rubbed his aching head and glanced blearily around the captain’s quarters. He sat in a small chair of dried woven reeds in the exact center of the room. Directly behind him was an elegant four-poster bed, draped in a canopy that shone like silk. The hand-carving and embroidery were distinctly English in origin, like the captain himself. Nothing else was. There were shelves cut into every wall, specially-beveled to keep the items within from flying off on rough water, and they were stuffed with all manner of strange and scintillating objects. Among them, Clint saw a set of pure silver scales, too small to weigh anything but still impossibly intricate; a cluster of animal figurines made of a shining black wood; and a huge, egg-shaped ball made entirely of jade. It was like a myna bird’s nest, or the hoard of a small, very organized dragon. And there were books everywhere--littering the bed, stacked up against the walls, tucked under the desk, spilling out of the closet—huge, thick books with bindings in deep shades of red, blue, and green, and golden lettering on the spines in all manner of languages and scripts. The light from the wall sconces was hazy—Clint saw an apparatus on the bedside table, a strange, tiny sort of urn, from which a steady stream of smoke wafted and curled.

            “Can you explain,” the captain went on, sliding languidly off the desk, “why for as long as you’ve been behind bars, my officers have been complaining incessantly of the state of the decks?”

            Clint swallowed. “Probably because there’s no one else to swab them?”

            Loping over to the chair, the Reaper appeared to consider. “My, Mr Barton, it’s as though you know nothing of the chain of command of a ship. If the Widow were truly bothered by the absence of your services, it is well within her power to assign another to provide them. And indeed, she has done so.” He leaned down, bracing a hand on either arm of the chair. Clint squirmed under the heat of his gaze. “One would imagine, then, the problem lies elsewhere.”

            Breath caught in his throat, Clint could only blink at him.

            “Quite simply, Mr Barton, my crew has taken a liking to you.” The Reaper, thankfully, pulled away, dismissing Clint in favour of picking invisible dust off the lapels of his coat. “Not the insignificant ones, either. My officers.”

            While he wasn’t entirely surprised, nor particularly flattered, he did feel distinctly under fire. Clint shifted in the chair, trying to wring salt water from his shirt as discreetly as possible. “Oh?”

            “While it does beg the question of what exactly about you they find so intriguing…” The captain spun the chair abruptly, setting Clint’s headache off again. Gripping the front of Clint’s shirt, he hoisted the prisoner off his feet. “I find I would prefer to handle the situation in a different manner.”

            Suddenly, the Reaper whipped around, throwing him roughly onto the bed. Taken aback by the man’s strength, Clint only shivered. The captain was on him in another second, a hand on his chest pressing him hard against the covers. “I think,” the Reaper breathed, lips brushing Clint’s nose as he spoke, “I would rather find a more...permanent solution.”

            The slip of metal on oiled leather made Clint’s skin crawl. He felt the curve of the killer scythe press into his stomach, sliding back and forth, each time moving closer and closer to the point. He swallowed hard, panting lightly against the Reaper’s mouth, closing his eyes to avoid the poisonous eyes.

            “Afraid?” the captain hissed. The back of the blade pushed harder into his gut

            Clint couldn’t even begin to answer.

            The Reaper licked his lips, grinning as he angled the blade against the prisoner’s ribs. “Change my mind.”

            An edge in the captain’s voice made his eyes fly open, now, curiously. There was a challenge in the other man’s eyes, something that glittered behind his cruel smile. One hand was the threat of the blade, but the other was cupped behind his neck, tangled in his hair--almost gentle. Clint had an errant thought, an impulse, and took it. He leaned up and kissed the Grinning Reaper, covering the blade with one hand and cupping the captain’s cheek with the other. Something twitched in his stomach, making him press harder, and the captain’s lips parted in surprise. After a long second, Clint pulled away, lying back on the bed and trying not to look too hopeful.

            The Reaper was stunned, eyes wide as he carefully, methodically drew the scythe away from Clint’s stomach, dropping it on the bedside table. The clang of the blade seemed to bring him back to reality. He looked almost insulted, for a second.

            Then he pounced on Clint, kissing him hard, hungry, his tongue swiping across the prisoner’s bottom lip. When he broke away, it was Clint’s turn to be stunned, watching breathlessly as the captain lifted his limp hand, slit down the palm from gripping the sickle-blade.

            “You make a convincing argument, Mr Barton,” the Reaper mused, running his fingertips through the welling blood. Pensively, he licked his fingers clean, making his prisoner shudder. “Perhaps we can work out an arrangement.”

            Clint managed to catch his breath, pushing himself up to lean on his elbows. “What did you have in mind?”

            “Simply earn your keep.” The captain shrugged. “Train with each of my officers. You have skills and...dedication.” He smirked, looking Clint up and down. “I will, of course, keep a close eye on your progress. Perhaps we can find you a place on the crew of the _Siren’s Tongue_.”

            “That’s all?” Tentatively, he sat up, brushing himself off.

            “Oh, don’t think it will be easy.” The Reaper took off his hat and the wrap underneath, combing his hair with a gold-toothed trinket from one of his shelves. The long black curls shone liquid in the dim light. “Should you fail, or prove inadequate, I will not hesitate to revoke my offer.”

            Clint caught himself staring. His mouth felt cottony. “I-I understand. Thank you, captain.”

            “Return to the brig for tonight.” Replacing the comb on the shelf, the Reaper tied a black rag over his hair and didn’t turn around. “Report to Mistress Natasha’s quarters tomorrow morning. She’ll get you started.”

            Clint nodded, slinking back out to the hall. His stomach was in turmoil, and he felt lightheaded. The thrill that had echoed up his spine from the taste of the captain’s lips still lingered, and he had a feeling it would prove to be very distracting.


	6. The Port

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate title: The Exposition

            For the sixth time that day, Clint had his hand smacked with a wooden spoon.

            “Non, non, non, non. Whisk it _gently_ , mon ami.” LeBeau sat on a wine barrel in the cramped galley, sipping a glass of the contents and “supervising” Clint’s depressing efforts at making the chef’s signature and crew’s favourite “garbage” quiche. “I know Wilson had you scrubbing cannon—your arms should be tired. Relax. Not so fast.”

            “I’m trying, I’m trying,” Clint muttered, slowing his hand. There were at least five add-ins in the eighteen-egg slosh already, and he had six more bowls to go. LeBeau used the quiche to use up the stragglers of his pantry, the ends of vegetables and half-strips of meat that wouldn’t feed the whole crew. Clint dumped in a cup of mushrooms and went back to whisking. His wrist had gone completely numb.

             “Remy.” Mistress Natasha stood in the doorway, arms crossed. “I need him.”

            “Fine, fine, fini, fini.” LeBeau took the mixing-bowl from his pupil and assumed responsibility for it, whisking in tiny, tight strokes that made the mixture froth. “Take him.”

            Natasha dragged Clint out of the galley and slammed him directly against the cabin wall. “Are you trying to cause a mutiny?”

            Clint blinked, too surprised to fight back. “Uh. Is this a trick question?”

            “I _know_ what you’re doing with the captain.” She scowled. “Everybody knows, actually.”

            “Oh.” Feeling himself go red from the tip of his nose on down, Clint gnawed on his lip. “Like… _every_ body?”

            “Not _like_ everybody. Everybody.” She released the front of his waistcoat, putting her hands on her hips. “Not just the officers. We don’t care who or what the captain has in his quarters, but it doesn’t look right to the crew—taking on a stowaway and not only not killing him, which has been our policy since the _Tongue’_ s maiden voyage, but taking him on as a personal…” She grimaced. “Concubine.”

            Clint winced. “I’m not a concubine. I _told_ you what happened, Mistress. He was gonna kill me. I panicked…it got out of hand.”

            “ _I_ know what happened, Barton, but the crew talks.” She crossed her arms. “They already aren’t the Reaper’s biggest fans. They know the officers deserve their positions, but they can barely handle when he picks favourites among the crew. You make it even worse.”

            “Should…” Shifting uncomfortably, Clint fiddled with the lacing of his waistcoat. “Should I…stop…with the captain?”

            “God, no. Keeping the Reaper happy is a thousand times more important than catering to those clods.” Shaking her head, Natasha let him go, checking the hourglass at her hip. “Come above with me. We’re about to dock in Spain, and Parker wants your help up in the lines. After that, you’re mine.”

            “More training?” he asked, mounting the ladder behind her.

            “No.” Slamming the bulkhead door behind him, Natasha tied up her hair. “If you’re going to stay…involved…with the captain, you should know what you’re getting into. I’m taking you to lunch.”

 

            Docking was smooth and silent. Once Parker tied the _Siren’s Tongue_ off, he and Wilson disappeared into the bustling streets of Vigo. The crew members, clutching the rolls of paper that held their instructions from the captain, filed off one by one. LeBeau took a small army of them, along with a satchel brimming with money and all five volumes of his scribbled grocery list.

            Clint hung back, waiting for Natasha to change. While he twiddled his thumbs by the door to her quarters, he saw Mister Logan climb the ladder to topside, followed by an absolutely stunningly beautiful woman. Her dark umber skin seemed to glow in the lamplight, and the sheer material of her red, purple, and deep blue skirts seemed to float and swirl around her. There were gold loops dripping from her wrists and ankles, dangling from her ears, and gold dust sparkling in her lashes like trapped sunbeams. A dab of dark red touched the center of her forehead, ringed with tiny pearls and dots of gold that formed a teardrop, the tail of which disappeared into her shining black hair. The most surprising thing was Logan seemed completely unperturbed by her presence. Clint didn’t realize he was staring until Natasha smacked him back to reality and gave him something completely different to stare at.

            “Still with me, Barton?” she snapped, shuffling through the hall while she arranged the ivory lace on her neckline.

            “Uh…” He looked over her dark green gown, printed with red-and-gold flowers. He’d changed back into his clothes from Boston—a bit salty, a bit stiff, but no worse for the wear. It hadn’t occurred to him the sailcloth-and-leather garments she’d patched together for herself at sea and looked so comfortable in were just as inappropriate for civilian visits as the sailcloth-and-leather garments she’d patched together for _him_ at sea.

            “Good answer.” She snorted and grabbed a matching hat from a hallway compartment. “And it’s better you stare at me than at the captain.” Rolling her eyes, she nodded toward the deck. “He eats up the attention and it throws him off for the day.”

            “The captain?” Following her gaze topside, where Logan and the woman had disappeared, Clint felt a headache coming on. “Aw, hell…Please tell me today’s the day you’re explaining all this to me.”

            “It is.” Swatting him away before he could try to help her up the ladder, Natasha headed for the dock. “We don’t have any orders for this visit. And I know this restaurant on the south end of the city that makes amazing paella.”

            Nervously, Clint followed behind her, casting furtive glances at the booths they passed. “Aren’t we gonna get arrested? Getting off a pirate ship and all?”

            Natasha shook her head. “That’s why I had you change. The Reaper always leaves the ship to conduct business, and he doesn’t trust anyone but Logan on the _Tongue_ without him. He has a rule about his officers getting arrested. I’ll explain that to you, too. But we all have cover stories.”

            He blinked. “I don’t.”

            “I made one for you.” She shrugged. “Like I made your clothes, your tools, and your career on a pirate ship.”

            “Thanks.” Clint snorted. “What is it?”

            Natasha smirked, adjusting her curls under her hat. “I’m an Imperial duchess, and you’re my handservant.”

            He frowned. “I couldn’t’ve been your brother?”

            “Not dressed like that.” She looked over his tricorn and breeches. “The colonies are a little simpler than the mainland, remember. We can get you real clothes on this visit, if you want, but until then, Mr Frumpy Patriot, you’re waiting on your boatswain.” Flicking a lace handkerchief from her waist, she fanned herself and batted her lashes. “Clinton.”

            Clint determined the rest of the walk to the restaurant was an appropriate amount of time to pout. The duchess act and Natasha’s impeccable Russian-accented Spanish got them a table overlooking the pristine Atlantic waters. He had no idea what paella was, much less how to order it, so he watched the ships bob in the harbour while she looked over the menu. The bloody, grinning Jolly Roger topping the _Siren’s Tongue_ flapped high above the other masts while the nation flags seemed to droop. Clint frowned, watching the waiter walk away. “Why doesn’t he hide the flag?”

            “What do you mean?” Spreading her napkin on her lap, Natasha cocked an eyebrow.

            “I always thought pirate ships took down the Jolly Roger when they docked.” He took a sip of wine and relished the absence of the flavour of damp, salty wood in with the Spanish grapes. “Put up a national flag so they wouldn’t get caught.”

            She snorted. “The Reaper’s too proud of his reputation. The _Tongue_ is so notorious in Europe that I can’t imagine any port authority would dare to go after her. The captain says—and in the time I’ve been with him, he’s never been wrong—men are far more likely to risk their jobs than their lives, when it comes down to it.” Rolling her eyes, she took a sniff of her glass. “Besides, the _Tongue_ started out as an English ship, but the Reaper says he’d rather cut off his legs than fly the Union Jack, so we don’t have anything else to fly.”

            With a sigh, Clint braced his elbows on the table, garnering a few derisive looks from other patrons. “So he’s English, but he hates the English. The crew hates him, but they’re fiercely loyal to him. They’re all ex-cons, but I never see ‘em fighting or even drinking too much. All the officers are from all over, and none of you knew each other or the captain before crewing on the _Tongue_.” Fed up, he counted the various mysteries off on his fingers. “Logan’s what, half-wolf? You got some tragic story no one’ll talk about, Miss _Widow_ , the gunner should be twelve kinds of rotting to death, and don’t even get me   _started_ on your carpenter, the Spider-M—“

            “There’s a lot to understand,” she cut in, bordering somewhere between patient and condescending. “And I can’t tell you everything, because I don’t know everything. But you deserve to know, and you deserve to be told, rather than finding it out the way the rest of us did.”

            He was taken aback. She almost sounded concerned. “Why?”

            “Because.” She took a long sip of wine. “You snuck onto the ship. You came to the _Tongue_ willingly. Why you did it doesn’t matter. You did the same as all the officers did, so you deserve to know as much as we do. The captain would tell you himself, but he doesn’t see it like I do. He thinks you’ll leave the ship given the chance, so you haven’t made the same sacrifices as the officers—I don’t think that matters. If you want to go back to the colonies, because God knows we’re headed that way eventually, you can. One stowaway Patriot isn’t enough to bring down the Reaper. Even if you came back with the Boston militia.”

            Clint just stared at her. “What…oof.” He rubbed his eyes, screwing them up in frustration. “What the hell did I get into?”

            “Actually....” She gave a wry smile. “Most of us are on the _Tongue_ to get out of hell.”

            And she told him, only stopping once to smile and nod at the waiter. Clint sat back and let the food get cold on the table.

 

            “I should start by saying a lot of this won’t seem possible. I don’t know how the Reaper does…anything he does, but it’s all true. It seems like there should be some trick to it, like all of a sudden, he’ll pull away a big sheet and we’ll see it was mirrors all along, but it’s beyond an illusion at this point.” She took a deep breath. “And I don’t know who the Reaper is, not really. I know he’s from England, and he had connections to the royal family. I know his name, but the officers are contractually-bound not to tell, and it doesn’t help anything, anyway. All I know is he has abilities I’ve never seen before, and he’s done things more brutal and inhuman than any pirate on the seas.”

            “What kind of…uh…abilities?” Clint squirmed a little.

            “You’ve seen some of them. I don’t know how he does it, but he can…change.” Natasha shook her head, like she couldn’t believe it herself. “The cabin boy and the woman you saw in the corridor are just a couple of the faces he likes to use.” Clint’s jaw dropped, and she laughed wryly. “Oh, that’s not all. Right now, he’s out there posing as that Indian woman and peddling charms and spells to unsuspecting civilians. He—she—it changes based on the city—promises whatever they want, but it’s usually wealth, strength, fame, that kind of thing. And those kinds of clients are desperate. They’ll promise anything. The deals only backfire if they don’t come through. He’ll mix up a drink that can make any girl fall in love with you if you promise never to leave her. He’ll pull gold out of the air for you if you promise never to spend it on yourself. They sign for it with a drop of blood. That seals the contract.”

            Clint shuddered. “Wish I’d known that little tidbit before I jumped into bed with him.”

             “It’s what he does when we’re in port.” She shifted uncomfortably. “The crew members are all former clients that welched on their deals. He takes them on as mindless muscle. He does something to their minds, so they all think they signed onto the crew willingly, and they have no memories of their old lives. We have mayors, scientists, even a priest or two, but they have no idea who they are. And, for as much as they complain, the ship is their lives. Their souls are tied to it. They’ll follow whatever or whoever governs the _Siren’s Tongue_. And as long as they do, I’m pretty sure they’ll never die.”

            Clint’s eye widened in shock. “So you have no idea who you are? Who you were?”

            “No, he doesn’t do that to the officers.” She shook her head. “We all came to the _Tongue_ willingly, either seeking it or the Reaper out. We all signed a—bloodless—contract. You promise to pillage and kill and generally do pirate things, to stay with the _Siren’s Tongue_ , and never to return to your old life, and in return, the Reaper gives you a fresh start, a fat paycheck, and a little…something extra.”

            He cocked an eyebrow. “Extra?”

            Natasha glanced around to check for eavesdroppers—though it was unlikely any of the dock workers stopping for lunch would know enough English to follow along. “Wilson’s scabs? He has a skin disease that should’ve killed him years ago, but he used the Reaper’s gift to get out of that. He couldn’t get rid of the disease, but now, he heals too fast for it to kill him.”

            “You’re kidding.” Clint raised his eyebrows.

            She nodded. “You’ve seen Parker in the ropes. He didn’t get that strong or fast on his own—he was a stick when we picked him up.”

            He chewed on his thumbnail pensively. “Logan? LeBeau?”

            Natasha rolled her eyes. “I know what you’re thinking, but as I understand it, Logan’s hanging onto his extra until he needs it. He’s just like that. And LeBeau…let’s hope you never need to find out.”

            “What about you?”

            She sighed. “I wasn’t making up the duchess thing. I grew up in Russia, in the House of Romanov. I studied at the Imperial Academy, I worked with dignitaries, I even married an ambassador. But when the emperor was assassinated, things got…messy. It was partly a reaction to my husband’s political involvement, so the empress suggested we go into hiding. We were trying to get back to his home in the colonies, but they caught up to us in Athens. While we were running from them, we ran into the Reaper working the bazaar. My husband begged him to take us on as part of his crew. Since we hadn’t welched, he couldn’t offer us the crew deal. We both signed officers’ contracts. He took me on as quartermaster, and my husband as boatswain.” Poking at her food, Natasha shook her head. “It was an escape. We didn’t want our extras, but the Reaper added a clause, after Logan, about hanging onto it, so we told him to surprise us.”

            “…Did he?” Clint didn’t want to point out the husband discrepancy any sooner than he had to.

            Finally digging into her meal, Natasha shrugged. “He could’ve been more creative.”

            “Huh.” Clint tried the mass of seafood and rice still steaming on his plate and was pleasantly surprised—although that might’ve been the reprieve from months of strictly French cuisine, a far cry from the smoky-sweet mix of spices. They ate in silence for a while; Natasha recovering from sharing so much, and Clint absorbing it all piece by piece.

            Counting out the money for the bill, Natasha glanced over his clothes one more time. “Ready to go find some decent clothes?”

            “These _are_ decent clothes.” He winced, fixing his waistcoat. “But yes.”

            “Great.” She offered her hand so he could help her up. “I know a tailor down by—“

            The door to the restaurant burst open, and Wilson collided with them in a tangle of limbs and scabs. He caught Natasha before she fell, leaving Clint to fall into a heap on the tiles, pulled up his hood, which he wore to fend off stares and gasps in the street, and panted, “Docks. Back. Now.”

            “What?” Natasha swatted him away, scowling and elbowing her way out to the street. “Where’s Parker?”

            “Already back on the ship.” Wilson leaned against the restaurant’s façade, grinning at a dusty, unhappy Clint. “Where you two are also going. Right now.”

            “On whose authority?” Natasha wanted to know. “Logan’s?”

            “The Reaper’s.” Catching his breath, the gunner took off his gloves and adjusted his overcoat. “Guess he heard something he didn’t like from a client. He wants the whole crew back on the ship and ready to push off by midnight.”

            “Push off?” Gathering her skirts, Natasha started back for the docks immediately, with Clint scrambling to keep up. “We’re supposed to be in port for a week!”

            “Not anymore.” Wilson tugged on his gloves, fixed his hood, and hooked his elbow around Clint’s jovially. “Now we’re sailing for London.”

 


	7. The Detour

            “ _London_?” Natasha was back in her leathers belowdecks. The _Siren’s Tongue_ had just left port, pointed north. She was in the captain’s quarters, spitting mad. Clint was also in the captain’s quarters, naked. And very uncomfortable.

            “Yes. Terribly sorry I didn’t run it by you first, Mistress, but I _was_ under the impression it was my ship.” The Reaper wrapped his dark silk dressing-gown around himself and rolled his eyes. “And as such, I could take it wherever I liked.”

            “You always say you’d drop dead before you set foot back in England.” She crossed her arms. “What changed?”

            “I supposed you _like_ ferrying back and forth across the Atlantic ad nauseam?” He cocked an eyebrow and gave a wicked smile. “Oh, of course _you_ do, Widow, but I think the rest of the crew gets bored here and there.”

            She scowled. “Speaking of the crew, what am I supposed to tell them?”

            “As though it matters.”

            “It _does_ matter. You know they don’t like deviation from our usual charts, and—“

            He held up a hand to cut her off. Turning on his hip, the captain draped himself over Clint again, running his fingers lightly down Clint’s bare chest. “Mister Barton…have you anything to say about the change of course?”

            Clint swallowed. He was already hot, blushing and sweaty from head to toe. The added audience and embarrassment only made it worse. “Uh. No.”

            “Then I see no reason for you to linger,” the Reaper breathed, lips brushing his neck. “Do you?”

            He shivered. “N-no.”

            “No?” Sharp fingernails bit into his bare hip.

            Clint jumped, barely biting back a gasp. “N-no—sir—“

            “Mm.” Untangling himself from Clint’s limbs, the captain inspected the fresh dots of blood under his nails. “You may go. Ask Logan for something to do.”

            “Yes, sir.” Scrambling for his clothes, Clint dressed haphazardly and fled to the hallway. He pulled the heavy cabin door closed behind him, leaning back against it to catch his breath. When his cheeks stopped feeling impossibly hot, he clambered up the ladder and went looking for the gunner instead.

 

            “WILSON!” Logan barked, hairy paws clamped on the wheel. “GET YER GREASY HIDE OUT THE ROPES!”

            “Aww…” The gunner dangled backward off the main boom, hanging on by his knees and swaying with the movement of the ship. “But Pete’s up here!”

            “Parker’s s’posed to be up there,” the sailing master growled. “Yer s’posed to be on deck—pullin’ yer weight.”

            Wilson spotted Clint leaving the hold and grinned. “No…I’m supposed to be doin’ whatever the captain wants me to do with Mister Barton. Hi, Clint!” He waved. “I’m guessing, at least.”

            “Out the ropes.” Logan crossed his arms. “Barton, get up here ‘n’ hold the compass.”

            Clint climbed up to the helm, exchanging a shrug with the dejected gunner, who was trudging fore to help close up the anchor. He held the compass and the sextant while Logan squinted at the folded map.

            With a sidelong glance at Clint, Logan sighed and snatched back his tools. “Fix yer clothes, bub. Yer a pirate, not a panhandler.”

            Blushing and muttering, Clint straightened and tucked in his shirt, rolling up and tying off his sleeves. “Sorry.”

            The navigator grunted and handed back the compass, busying himself with the sextant’s calibrations. “Knew the captain’d take a likin’ to you.”

            Clint froze. “A liking?”

            “Sure. He don’t fuck anyone in his quarters. Not ‘less he likes ‘em.”

            Clint knew the Reaper liked certain parts of him, and certain acts of his, but to say the feeling was holistic was more than a stretch. “You sure about that?”

            Logan grunted an affirmative. “Since ya were good to the cabin boy. ‘N’ you came t’the _Tongue_ on yer own. He likes that kinda thing.”

            “Doesn’t really seem like he likes me. In bed, maybe, but not for much else.” Clint frowned at his boots.

            “Listen, bub.” Dropping all his tools back into their crate, Logan scowled and bit off the end of a fresh cigar. “I been sailin’ with the Reaper fer twelve years. He got his business ‘n’ I got mine, but I know ‘im well enough.”

            “Huh.” Clint stared down at the face of the compass for a while. “You wouldn’t happen to know the deal with London, wouldja? Why’s it so important?”

            With a long huff, the sailing master grabbed hold of the wheel. “Can’t say why the captain cares so damn much ‘bout it. But there’s talk in Vigo the prince is goin’ home.”   
            “The prince?” Leaning back against the railing of the quarter deck, Clint cocked an eyebrow. “Like of England?”

            “S’right. He’s been in France fer school, but since there’s talk’a France sidin’ with yer colonies, he’s headin’ back to London. Or so says the client the Reaper kicked outta his office.” Lighting his cigar, Logan gave a couple puffs, then pulled another from his pocket and offered it to Clint, shearing off the end with the big hunting knife at his waist.

            Clint took it. “What’s that matter to the captain?”

            “Ask ‘im yerself.” Striking a match between his teeth, Logan lit the end of Clint’s cigarette and turned back to the wheel.

            “Yeah, right.” Snorting, Clint took a couple puffs and looked out over the stern of the _Tongue_. Vigo was a mere splash of colour on the horizon.

            “Well, now’s yer chance.” Logan nodded to the main deck. “Here he comes.”

            The Reaper was out of the cabin again, fully-dressed but for his coat and hat, escorting a very disgruntled Natasha to the forecastle. Clint looked down at the cigar, watching the little white crinkles of ash wisp away on the wind. “’Course he is.”

            “’F you ask me,” the sailing master grumbled, flashing Clint a yellow-eyed glance as the captain headed back for the helm, “With how much he hates the royal family, I’d wager we’re headin’ out t’kidnap Prince George. Bring in a hefty ransom.” Logan sniffed and picked loose tobacco out of his teeth. “Looks like yer ‘bout to be on duty.” He pointed his cigar to the main deck, where the Reaper stood right by the main mast, arms crossed and eyes expectant.

            Clint snuffed his cigar on the railing and sighed, hoping this time, they wouldn’t be interrupted. He had been prepared for another round of being pounded into the captain’s surprisingly expensive mattress, something he enjoyed more than he would have freely admitted to his brothers in the militia. Natasha’s interruption left him tense and uncomfortable—tension the Reaper was more than happy to relieve. What Clint wasn’t prepared for, this time, was the aftermath; rather than being banished back to his space in the fighting top, giddy and sweaty, he found himself…cuddling.

            The captain rested his head on Clint’s shoulder. His dark curls were splayed out on the pillow in a tousled mess, and his eyes were closed softly. Clint tried to force himself to relax, catching his breath, but he wasn’t entirely accustomed to affection from the captain. He’d had time to adjust to the rough sex and teasing, but affection was new. He shifted away a little, wondering if he should grab for his clothes. “Sir?”

            “Mm?” The Reaper sat halfway up, yawning. “You don’t want to stay? It’s much warmer here than on deck.”

            “No, I don’t mind, it’s just…” Clint swallowed. “You usually send me away.”

            “And now I’m not.” Stretching, the captain lay back down, curling around the pillows. “You’re welcome to stay. More than.” There was light in his eyes that wasn’t from the candles. Something warm, playful, and possibly even wistful. It was enough to make Clint lie back down with the most dangerous pirate in the Atlantic. With a contented sigh, the captain pressed into his chest. He was always a few degrees cooler than everything else, a welcome reprieve to Clint’s feverish skin.

            Something about the combination of the Reaper’s gentle breathing and unfounded kindness made him seem just human enough for Clint to have the courage to ask. “Captain?”

            “Mm?”

            “Why are we going to London?”

            The captain gave a long sigh, taking Clint’s hand and toying with his fingers. “You know, you aren’t the first to ask me that question today.”

            He winced. “I’m sorry, sir, I—“

            “No, no.” Burying his face in Clint’s neck, the Reaper smiled. “I thought you might wonder why I cut your Spanish vacation so short.”

            “You don’t have to tell me—“

            “You want to know.” Rolling onto his back, the captain traced patterns down Clint’s chest. “Mistress Natasha told you her story, didn’t she? Along with her understanding of the legend of the _Siren’s Tongue_.” He laughed ruefully. “I can’t promise you nearly as much, but I do owe you something for serving me so well these past few months.”

            Feeling his cheeks get hot, Clint stared at the comforter. “Uh…thank you, Reaper…”

            “I know this may come as something of a shock to you,” the captain teased, giving him a sidelong glance, “but that isn’t my name.”

            Nervously, Clint laughed. “I guessed…but I thought only your officers were allowed to know your name.”

            “Officially.” Lazily, the captain curled up on his chest. “But you didn’t come to the _Tongue_ officially, Mister Barton.” He was quiet for a while, carding his long fingers through Clint’s hair. “My name,” he said after a while, “is William Loren Augustus IV.”

            Clint blinked. “That’s a mouthful. Are you royal?”

            “I come from nobility.” The captain sniffed. “But I am an enemy to the royal family. More than self-proclaimed.” He stretched, cocking an eyebrow. “I go by Loki.”

            “Loki.” It was unusual, a little exotic. Fitting. Clint played with the silken sheets. “So Logan’s right.”

            “Logan?” The captain lifted his fingers out of Clint’s hair and frowned. “What did he say?”

            “We’re going to London to kidnap Prince George.”

            The Reaper snorted, leaning back on the pillows. “If I could stand to have him aboard, he still wouldn’t be worth the ransom. No, we’re not going to kidnap the prince.” He grinned, obviously very proud of his plan. “We’re going to head off his ship in the English Channel and rob him blind.”

            Clint was shocked. All he could think to say was, “…that’s it?”

            The captain froze. “What do you mean?”

            “You’re a pirate. The most infamous pirate at sea today,” he pointed out. “You rob people all the time. What makes this job so important?”

            “Simply put, no pirate has ever taken a Royal Navy ship carrying an actual royal.” The Reaper smirked. “Particularly not this ship. The HMS _Victory_ is the largest and richest the Royal Navy has ever had. And we won’t soon know its location nor its cargo again.” He sighed, pulling Clint close to his chest and stroking tiny circles into his scalp. “Once we clean out its holds, I’ll take us all the way to Italy.” His voice was low and husky, thrumming in his chest. Clint couldn’t help but melt into it. “Then I’ll buy you some proper clothes, my pet.”

_Pet_. It made Clint’s stomach feel twisted and tight, and his cheeks grow hot again. At that moment, he couldn’t have cared less about London or the _Victory_ or anything she might be carrying. At that moment, he became abruptly aware that whether he was a mere toy to the captain, or something more, he was in very big trouble.


	8. The Victory

            “PREPARE TO BOARD!” Natasha shouted, swinging from the shrouds. “ALL HANDS TO PORT!”

            The British Navy vessel was the biggest Clint had ever seen squeeze its way into a waterway as small as the English Channel. Stacked with a hundred and some guns and flying sails the size of Patriot sloops, it was painted resplendently and probably freshly in black and white, with the lights blazing in its lower decks revealing elegant Regency cabins carved from exotic woods and dripping with gold leaf. White calligraphy on its hull identified it as the HMS _Victory_. Clint had seen the same ship once in the Boston harbour. He had been below its decks for inspection. The _Victory_ carried more booty on principle than most merchant ships did after a good haul.

            But something had the crew riled in a way that was uncharacteristic, even for such a rich prospect. Wilson was nowhere near the guns; he was with Parker, carrying the gangplank up from belowdecks. Even more bizarrely, LeBeau was topside.

            Logan was working double-time at the helm with his mate Summers, an adulterer from Lisbon. Natasha had another crewman working the center mast, pulling down the Jolly Roger. A white flag hung at his belt, ready to be flown. The Reaper was on the forecastle, watching the _Victory_ off the bow. Clint went up to him.

            “Sir?” he asked, dodging a swinging boom. “Is this normally how you take down a mark?”

            “Not at all, Mister Barton.” Grinning, the Reaper tied his hair out of his face. “But the _Victory_ won’t fall for our usual tricks.”

            As it turned out, the _Victory_ didn’t fall for tricks at all.

            Logan drew the _Tongue_ up broadside to the Royal flagship with barely ten feet between the hulls. The sails were tied off, the black barque gliding smoothly to a drift beside the _Victory_. Parker and Wilson heaved over the gangplank, hooking it to the _Victory’_ s railing. But before the gunner could swing himself overboard, a dozen naval officers threw themselves out of the _Victory’_ s sails onto the deck of the _Siren’s Tongue_ , blades drawn and pistols cocked.

            Clint panicked as the deck around him dissolved into a brawl. The captain squeezed his shoulder and pressed a long dagger into his hand. “Go on. Make noise with the rest of them. We’ve got to flush out the game.”

            Before he could ask, he was pushed onto the main deck and grabbed by an English officer the size of an Irish hill. He grappled with the officer, slamming him against the forecastle and stabbing at his gut. Natasha had thrown herself from the shrouds and swiped an officer’s club, which she was now using to crack skulls. At the helm, Logan had opened the odd-shaped sheaths at his sides and was using their contents—two sets of brass knuckles with three long, wicked blades attached to each—to take on four sailors at once. More _Victory_ crewmen poured over the gangplank. Through the throng of thrashing bodies, Clint saw LeBeau heading to meet them. The Frenchman was grinning, reaching into his harlequin clothes and taking out his deck of cards. A rigger from the _Victory_ tackled Clint to one side, and he lost the visual, except for strange flashes of red light—and the screams of England’s finest.

            Another pair of boots clumped onto the gangplank, and the Reaper moved, climbing into the lines with almost as much dexterity as Parker. He swung through the lines and dropped onto the ladder to the quarter deck, drawing enough attention to pause the fighting without a word. With a placid smile, he took off his hat with a flourish and gave a gracious bow to the man on the gangplank. “Your Highness,” the captain purred, leaning lazily on the railing of the ship. “Welcome to the _Siren’s Tongue_. I had hoped to get your attention. To call a parley.”

            The man on the gangplank was huge, tall and broad-shouldered. His high-necked navy coat was gilded at every edge, and the bright red-and-gold coat-of-arms of the House of Hanover shone proudly on his breast. He had long, honey-blonde hair tied back with a red ribbon, and hadn’t bothered to shave his beard while at sea. Clint had never seen the tyrant king or his son, and though the younger George looked nothing like his or his father’s political cartoons, the air of royalty in his straight back and clean fingernails was unmistakable.

            “This is how you’ve spent your time, brother?” The prince surveyed the _Tongue_ and her crew hatefully. “Surrounding yourself with cursed souls and thieves and running down Father’s ships?”

            Clint looked over the naval officer he was holding to exchange wide-eyed glances with Natasha. _Brother?_

            “Not just His Majesty’s fleet,” the Reaper replied, sneering. “Allies of Britain are just as satisfying to pillage.”

            “This is madness.” Stepping off the _Victory_ ’s gangplank, the prince approached the captain pleadingly. “Come back to the palace with me. You can make amends and stop these foolish games.”

            “The only madness here lies in the House of Hanover,” the Reaper sniffed. “The only fool is His Majesty— _your_ father.” He drew the scythe from his belt, holding it out to keep the prince at arm’s length. “I swore I would never return to England’s banks, and I never break a deal. Neither I nor the _Siren’s Tongue_ will rest until King George’s empire crumbles like the fall of Rome.”

            “You would plunge an entire kingdom into chaos just to spite the king?” The prince raised an eyebrow. “Seems a bit excessive, even for you.”

            “You have one chance, Prince George,” the captain snapped. “Surrender the _Victory_ and her crew, else royal blood will run on the decks of both our ships.”

            The prince shook his head. “You won’t kill me. You’re not that mad.”

            The Reaper grinned, tipping his head to one side. “Would you bet your life on it?”

            “Brother, please.” The prince drooped, shoulders falling in dejection. “We’ve lost too much time already.”

            “You and I?” The captain laughed. “Not nearly enough. Your crew, on the other hand…well.” He laughed again, the low, chilling, cackling kind, and nodded to the deck of the _Victory_ , where a growing pile of sacks of loot was slowly making its way across the gap between the two ships, pumped across on a clothesline by the gunner’s scabby hands. “I’d say,” the Reaper teased with a triumphant smirk, “you’ve lost more than time.”

            The prince’s eyes flared in anger. “You’re looting my ship?”

            “I knew you’d be blabbering on about family.” The captain shrugged. “I thought I’d make use of the opportunity.”

            “You haven’t changed,” the prince growled, reaching for the gleaming hilt of the sword at his waist. “You’re honourless and faithless as always.”

            “Oh, dear.” Feigning a swoon, the Reaper used his hat to fan himself. “Does this mean my glorious, faultless, shining hero of a brother has forsaken me as well?”

            “You told me you wanted to talk.” The prince gritted his teeth. “To bury the hatchet. In your letters you said you might come home.”

            “I did,” the captain agreed, picking boredly at the tip of his sickle. “It’s almost as though I lied to you.”

            With a metallic ringing, the prince’s sword flew from its sheath. He held his head high, raising the blade toward the captain. “You double-crossed me.”

            “Yes.” Shooting a meaningful look over to Logan on the forecastle, the Reaper gave a contented sigh. “And now I’m going to kill your crew.”

             The prince snorted. “Father was right about you.”

            In one fluid motion, the Reaper threw off his overcoat, drew his sickle, and tackled the prince to the deck.

            The resulting battle picked up where the first had left off. Whatever LeBeau was doing to port, he kept doing, and the crowd of _Victory_ officers thinned out with mysterious quickness. Logan punched a second mate so hard in the jaw the man’s tongue flopped to the deck. Parker took a break from pulling loot to wrap his legs around another’s neck and whip him facefirst into the mizzen. Clint was squaring off with an officer in a painfully familiar red coat when he heard Natasha yell:

            “Barton! The captain!”

            The officer slashed at him with a wickedly-sharp rapier. More than slightly panicked, Clint swiped a candelabrum from the pile of Wilson’s booty and brought it down on the man’s sword hand, hard enough to make him drop it. The move surprised even him, but Clint barely had time to celebrate before the Royal officer drew a dagger from his belt and lunged. He sidestepped frantically, grabbed the back of the man’s jacket, and yanked him hard to port, cracking the officer’s skull into the mizzen and knocking him out cold. Panting, Clint scooped up the discarded sword and ran for the quarter deck, where the prince’s sword and the captain’s sickle lay forgotten on the ladder. When he got up to the helm, the prince had the Reaper in a headlock over the railing, holding him by his throat and hair alone while he dangled over the dark water of the Channel.

            “The world has been subjected to your tricks long enough, William,” the prince was growling while his brother gasped for air. “It’s time you were sent back where you belong.”

            Someone shouted, “NO!” Clint realized it was him when Prince George whipped around. He met the Reaper’s eyes, empty now of their usual playful malice and redressed in white-hot fear. Mind racing, Clint tried to decide whether to plead with the prince or jump on him, desperately wishing he had the dusty old bow and quiver sitting in his wardrobe, miles away in Massachusetts. The fighting on deck had all stopped, all eyes on the quarter deck and the world’s most notorious pirate, struggling for air.

            Then the prince snorted a laugh and dropped him.

            The Reaper clawed at the hull of his ship for a handhold, but his nails bounced harmlessly off the obsidian sheath. The splash echoed through the gilded sails, sending every hand in the _Tongue’_ s crew scrambling starboard for a look. The first to reach the shrouds were the last to see him devoured by the breakers, one pale hand and a spot of black disappearing under the greyish waves.

            Prince George watched him go, then turned away from the railing, brushing past Clint with a shoulder that hit him like a cannonball and gathering up the fallen sickle. He felt its weight, half-smiling to himself, then pointed back to the _Victory_ , barking at his men. “Bring over the lines. We’re towing this rover back to Brighton.”

           


	9. The Patriot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm late I'm late I'm late I'm late I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry

            Clint had hoped by fucking the bloodthirsty pirate captain that had half-abducted him and half-facilitated his escape from the colonies, he wouldn’t have to spend any more time in a brig. He was wrong.

            When they docked in Brighton, the crew of the _Victory_ dumped their human bounty into the open-air, seaside cells of the city jail, giving the crew of the _Siren’s Tongue_ ample view of their ship bobbing empty in the harbour, still loaded up with booty from the _Victory_ and at least three other ships. The jail was no better than the brig, and though being crammed in one cell with all the officers was better than either of the two cells stuffed full of mates and riggers, it was still no picnic. Wilson was picking himself again, stripping down to his skivvies and making a small pile of dried scabs on the wooden bench in the corner. LeBeau hung on the bars of the cell, screaming obscenities in French. Logan just sat stoically in the corner, growling anytime the guards passed by. Only Parker seemed mildly content, catching and investigating the spiders that paraded the crannies of the cell.

            In their cells, the crew members were restless, fighting, yelling, and throwing themselves against the walls. No amount of badgering and shouting from the city guards could get them to stop. It was as stressful as it was headache-inducing. Natasha pulled her bandanna down over her ears and scrunched into the corner with Clint, who had approximated the same thing with his shirt.

            “They can’t be away from the _Tongue_ ,” she explained, shouting over the noise. “Remember?”

            “That’s just fuckin’ fantastic,” Clint yelled back. “Since the prince killed her captain and I’m pretty sure he wants to tear down the ship when we get to Brighton.”

            “He won’t tear her down,” Natasha said grimly. “The crew will kill him first.”

 

            They quieted down at night. Everything did. Clint watched as Parker slowly dropped off, away from his spiders and into Wilson’s arms. LeBeau managed to annoy the Brighton guards enough to be marched off to his own cell. Clint stayed awake, even after Logan growled himself to sleep on the de-scabbed bench and Natasha dozed off against the bars. He watched the moon get higher and higher, full enough for its light to scintillate and dance on the _Siren’s Tongue_ ’s glassy hull. The harbour streets went still, with no signs of life. Only the ocean moved, ebbing and flowing gently under the silvery light of the moon. The only sound was the quiet wash of waves under the docks.

            Clint leaned against the bars with a sigh. Christmas had come and gone. The other Sons had had their little “tea party” without him. Only a few days earlier, he’d been thinking his stowing away on the _Tongue_ had been the best idea he’d ever had. Now that it had backfired—horribly—all he could hear was Rogers’ voice in his head, calling him a deserter and a sorry excuse for a soldier. He liked the excitement of the pirate life—or at least he’d learned to. But now, sitting in a cell in Mother England, he couldn’t help but miss the solidarity and support he’d left in Boston. He ran his fingers over the stones outside his cell, humming, then singing their old drinking song to himself:

            “ _Torn from a world of tyrants beneath this western sky_ ,

_We formed a new dominion, a land of liberty._

_The world shall own we’re freemen here, and such will ever be,_

_Huzzah, huzzah, huzzah, huzzah, for love and liberty—”_

            Something moved, shuffling in the nearby alley, and Clint stopped, pulling away from the bars, in case it was a particularly nationalistic English guard. It was just as well, he thought. It didn’t sound right, singing “Free America” without his brothers-at-arms.

            The shuffling came again, and he jumped, peering curiously out of the bars. The shadow of a man peeked out to the far left, moving closer. Outlined from behind by the moon, there was something…off about his silhouette, something Clint couldn’t quite place. He approached the cells tentatively, looking around for guards. His clothes—what Clint could see in shadow—were ratty. He spoke in a loud whisper, squinting at the cells. “Hello?”

            Clint didn’t answer, standing up to get a better look. The man shielded his eyes with one hand and moved closer to the jail. “Is someone there?”

            Clint frowned. “Who wants to know?”

            “I’m not a guard.” The man followed his voice to the door of his cell. “They’re all off-duty, anyway.” He was still mostly in shadow, but Clint could see he had long, dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, a thin, stubbly beard.

            “Okay.” Confused, Clint leaned away from the bars. “What can I, uh, do for you?”

            “Sorry, but…” Looking equally confused, the man stared down at the cobblestones. “Were you the one singing?”

            “Uh…yeah.” He nodded.

             “What song is that?” The man brightened. “It sounds familiar.”

            Clint snorted. “I’m sure it does, but it ain’t ‘The British Grenadiers’.”

            “No, no, that’s not it—“ Nibbling on his thumbnail, the man screwed up his face. “It sounds like something I heard back in the colonies.”

            “The colonies?” Clint perked up. “You know ‘Free America’?”

            “…I don’t know,” the stranger admitted. “Maybe?”

            Encouragingly, Clint gave him a few more lines. “ _Lift up your hands, ye heroes, and swear with proud disdain_ …”

_“The wretch that would ensnare you shall lay his snares in vain,_ ” the man finished, surprising himself.

_“Should Europe empty all her force, we'll meet her in array,_

_“And fight and shout and shout and fight for North America!“_

            They finished perhaps a little too loudly for the hour and laughing, taken back to the rowdy meetings in crowded bars and long, gunpowder-scented hours in the fields.

            “I never thought I’d find another Son of Liberty all the way out here.” With a smile of relief, Clint leaned against the bars. “Don’t suppose you’d be willing to give a brother freedom and a little quarter?”

            Grinning, the man clapped him on the shoulder. “I just might. I guessed you’d be wanting to get away from those cellmates of yours. Not a friend to pirates?”

            “Actually…” Clint winced. “They _are_ friends. If you wouldn’t mind…?”

            The man’s smile wavered as he looked over the sleeping lumps of the _Siren’s Tongue_ ’s officers, but he shrugged. “Why not? I’ve got room.”

 

            “You have no idea who he is,” Natasha said slowly. “He’s never seen you before in his life, you didn’t even get a good look at him—and you want us to hide in his cellar?”

            “We can trust him.” Clint was leaning against the front corner of the cell, smiling sweetly at the dock guard any time they passed.

            “Oh, really?”

            “He’s a Son of Liberty.” While mutual knowledge of drinking songs wasn’t the most reliable method of identification, Clint had seen the silversmith’s seal pounded into the buttons of the stranger’s coat. “That makes him more trustworthy than the whole population of Britain.”

            “I’m British,” Parker pointed out, frowning.

            Natasha elbowed him. “You’re a pirate.” She sighed. “When did he say he’d be dropping off the key?”

            “Uh…he didn’t.” Scratching a fleabite on the back of his head, Clint avoided her eyes. “He just said he’d get it to us.”

            Without another word, Natasha buried her face in her hands.

            Clint watched the docks through the bars, waiting. While the sun climbed in the sky, passers-by wandered past the ships bobbing and nodding in the harbour: wives carrying baskets of groceries, merchants’ boys running wares from booth to booth, children running across the weather-beaten boards, and a blind man, tapping along the dirt with his long white cane. A city guard passed by the cells every few minutes, squinting into the bars.

            On one of his rounds, the blind man’s cane connected with his leg. Growling, the guard pushed the man roughly, knocking him into the dirt by the officers’ cell. “Watch where you’re going!” he snapped, kicking a puff of dust onto the man’s coat before moving on his route.

            The blind man scrabbled in the dirt as though he were searching for something, though his hand was still firmly wrapped around the handle of his cane. “Excuse me,” he whispered, feeling the bars in front of him, “Is there a Patriot in this cell?”

            Clint sat up straight. “Uh. Yes? Clint Barton, of the Boston militia.”

            “Here.” The man rummaged in the inside of his coat and pulled out a wrap of leather, pressing it through the bars. “Wait until the guard passes by again, then pick the lock. I’ll be waiting two blocks east and one block north, by the chemist’s.”

            While the man picked himself up and tapped away, Clint opened the leather pouch. Inside were four thin, oddly-shaped metal picks. He frowned. “I’ve…never picked a lock before.”

            “Give it to me.” Rolling her eyes, Natasha took the picks from him and went to work on the lock the instant the guard was out of sight. The lock popped open around the third time he came by, and Natasha quickly pocketed the picks before he could see them. As soon as he turned the corner, she kicked open the door.

            “Can I grab something from the _Tongue_?” Wilson asked, brushing the dirt out of the creases of his leathers. “I forgot my hat.”

            “You’ve _got_ to be kidding—“ Natasha began, but the tragic pout he was wearing shut her up. She sighed. “Make it quick. Barton, stay with him and meet us at the chemist.”

            Clint nodded, taking off running behind the gunner.

            “Grab my cigars!” Logan called after them.

            Wilson stopped on the dock in front of the _Tongue_ ’s bow. “Barton! Gimme a boost.” When Clint dropped to one knee, he used his hands as a springboard to throw himself toward the screaming figurehead, the only part of the ship with any traction. Grabbing onto the crevices of her mouth and empty eye sockets, the gunner clambered onto the bowsprit and flipped himself over the side. He gave Clint a small wave before disappearing aft.

            Looking around furtively, Clint sat down on the edge of the dock to wait. The tide was low, the waves barely kissing the toes of his boots. The guards had noticed the empty cell and were congregating around the jail, shouting and sending scouts off in all directions. Clint didn’t want to draw attention by calling up to Wilson, so he settled for silently begging him to hurry.

            _Splash_.

            It was a sizable noise, like an anchor falling into the water. Clint jumped, searching the surface of the water for the source. The _Siren’s Tongue_ ’s anchor was still locked up tight, and the _Victory_ ’s wasn’t close enough to have made the sound. Small ripples were disappearing under the dock by Clint’s feet. He stood up, frowning down at the water. The tiny shadows of fish flitted around under the surface, which seemed darker than normal. He bent down again to get a closer look.

            _THUD._

            Wilson hit the dock in a ball, wearing his patchwork red cap and carrying a suitcase under his arm. He snickered at the startled look on Clint’s face. “I got Logan’s cigars, Pete’s sketchbook, and the Widow’s hourglass. Ready?”

            There was another big ripple under the dock, and all the fish darted away. Clint frowned, shaking his head to clear it. “I’ve _been_ ready. C’mon.”

            They made it to the chemist’s, panting from dodging the dock guards the entire way. Natasha looked halfway to murder, but she changed her tune when she saw her hourglass. “C’mon.” She rolled her eyes, nodding to the blind man perched on a crate outside the chemist’s. “Mr Murdock here is taking us to your friend.”

            “Mr Murdock, _Esquire_ ,” the man piped up. “Yes.” He had a shock of floppy brown hair, and though the outside of his coat was scuffed and dirty, it was lined with red silk, and there were fine clothes underneath it.

            “Whoa.” Wilson’s jaw dropped. “Blind and a lawyer?”

            Murdock nodded. “Blind and a lot of things. If you’ll follow me?”

            He led them deeper into the city, tapping his way through winding alleys until they reached a significantly shabbier neighbourhood, one with smaller, full-timbered houses and potholes in the cobblestone roads. They reached a falling-down, two-story building with a sign out front reading _Surgeon_. Murdock knocked on the door, and a short, curly-haired man with greying temples answered. He wore a long white coat with the sleeves rolled up to accommodate his heavy black gloves. He goggled at the ragtag collection on his doorstep.

            Murdock smiled. “Evening, Doctor. Hope we’re not interrupting.”

            “Evening, Matthew…” Taking off his gloves, the doctor mopped his forehead with a dingy handkerchief and moved aside to let them in. “I just sent my last patient home. Are these the friends you were telling me about?”

            The blind man nodded. “One Patriot and four pirates. Just like your minuteman said.”

            “Four?” Clint frowned. There were five officers on the _Siren’s Tongue_.

            “Oh, holy shit.” Wilson clapped a hand to his forehead. “We forgot Remy.”

            “Our cook,” Parker explained to the bewildered doctor. “They put him in another cell.”

            “He’ll be fine,” Logan muttered. “We’ll send Barton back for him later.”

            “Thank you for having us in your home,” Natasha cut in, giving the doctor a gracious smile. “We’ll try not to stick around too long.”

            “Oh, that’s okay.” Shutting and locking the door, the doctor waved her off. “I’m Banner, by the way. This is my building. Matthew runs his practice on the second floor.” He nodded toward the lawyer, then peered at Clint over the rims of his glasses. “Are you the Patriot?”

            “Yes, sir.” Clint grinned sheepishly. “Clint Barton, of the Boston militia.”

            “Pleasure to meet you.” Taking off his glasses, Banner cleaned them on a spot of his apron that wasn’t stained with blood. “And the rest of you are?”

            “Duchess Natalia Alexeeva,” Natasha piped up. “Of the House of Romanov. This is Lieutenant Wade Wilson, a deserter from the Pennsylvania militia; Mr Peter Parker, a carpenter and fugitive from the Scottish courts; and Logan.”

            Banner cocked an eyebrow. “Logan what?”

            The sailing master gritted his teeth. “ _Mister_ Logan.”

            “Ah.” Slipping his glasses back on, the doctor padded deeper into his house, leading them through a small, cluttered kitchen to the cellar door. “Well, it’s an honour to meet you all. I can’t say I’ve ever met a group of pirates as diverse and, er, accomplished, as yourselves.”

            “You’ve met other pirates?” Parker asked, searching the ceiling, presumably for spiders.

            “Plenty.” The doctor opened the cellar door after a few heaves. “I do a lot of amputations. I’m a friend to pirates and police alike. Go on.” He nodded down the stairs. “You can stay down there as long as you need. I’ll call you when dinner’s ready.”

            “We’ll pay ya,” Logan huffed. “Fer givin’ quarter.”

            “We’ll talk about that,” the doctor said, eyes darkening a little, “on your way out.” He turned to take off his coat. “Say hi to Barnes for me.”

            Clint paused at the top of the stairs. “Barnes? Your other Patriot?”

            Banner nodded. “Why?”

            “It’s…no reason.” He frowned. Captain Rogers had had a friend named Barnes, a founding member of the Sons. From the captain’s stories, and the way he never wanted to tell them, Clint had assumed he’d died in one of the early conflicts of the rebellion. He was about to shake it off when he heard Natasha scream.

            When he got to the bottom of the stairs, Wilson was holding her up. Natasha’s eyes were wide and all the blood had drained from her face. “Oh, my God,” she panted. “Oh, my God…”

            “What happened?” Clint asked.

            “I don’t know.” It was the same man who had orchestrated the escape. Clint saw now he was missing an arm, explaining both the strangeness of his shadow the night before and probably how he’d come to meet the good doctor. “She just came down the stairs and kinda…buckled.”

            “Oh, my God,” Natasha breathed again, staggering to her feet. She half-reached toward the man with a limp hand, then covered her mouth with it. “J-James?”

            “Is she okay?” the other Patriot asked, glancing at the other pirates. “Who’s James?”

            “Who’s James?!” Mouth dropping open, she swatted him on the arm. “That’s _you_ , you idiot!”

            “Widow, what’s goin’ on?” Logan barked, narrowing his eyes. “Who is this joker?”

            She scowled. “He’s my husband.”

           


	10. The Encounter

            If Barnes was anyone’s husband, it was news to him. Dr Banner had found him floating in the harbour on the decimated remains of a dinghy, unconscious, covered in bruises and gashes, and sporting a long spike of driftwood embedded for about a foot in the meat of his left arm. He had taken the man back to his practice, sewn up the flesh he could save and amputated what he couldn’t. The one-armed man spoke fluent Russian and English, and was fairly confident he’d been born in the colonies, but he had no memory of his life before waking up on Banner’s table. For all he knew, he could’ve been a pirate, a minuteman, or a Caribbean diamond peddler. As he explained while Banner consigned them all to scrubbing potatoes, it was as if his whole life prior to washing up on the Brighton docks had simply been erased.

After dinner, Natasha was determined to either jog Barnes’ memory or drink herself to death in frustration. Clint, however, would not be present for the thrilling conclusion, because the subpar supper of sausages and biscuits Banner had prepared had made the Reaper’s officers homesick for LeBeau’s cooking, which meant someone had to go break Remy out. And since Clint _hadn’t_ been reunited with his long-lost husband, and all the other officers could take him blindfolded, the honour fell to him. Having been sufficiently forewarned, both of the unsupervised guards and the angry Frenchman, and sporting new, unassuming surgeon’s clothes from Banner’s closet, Clint headed back to the docks.

            It was a chilly, damp night, with fog blanketing the water. Clint stuck to the shadows on his way down—“I’m just on my way home” was an excuse that could only be used once. It was late enough that there was a single dock guard on patrol, and he was easy enough to see coming, with his lantern bobbing and creaking through the mist. Clint waited until it bobbed away before stepping out from under the awning of a bookstore and making for the cells. He passed the two chock full of crew, both containing snoring heaps of pirate bodies. LeBeau had been moved to the very last cell on the west end of the jail, directly in front of the HMS _Victory._ Towering over the jail, the Royal vessel glowed ghostly blue and silver in the fog. The _Siren’s Tongue_ floated by her side, between the _Victory_ and the pier, as though the striped monolith were pinning her prey to the docks. The moon was fuller than the night before, bright enough to make the rolling fog nearly opaque. Clint heard Remy before he saw him:

            “Bar _ton_! A _droite!_ ”

            Feeling his way to the cell, Clint grabbed one of the bars. “How’d you know it was me?”

            “Ben, s’il te plaît—“ The chef rolled his eyes. “The guard carries a light, and you are the only one of my possible rescuers who would look so hopelessly lost, mon ami.”

            “Hah. Thanks.” Casting a glance over his shoulder, Clint leaned in closer. “Did you see if the guard carries the keys?”

            “No need.” LeBeau offered him a crooked smile. “I saw the captain of the _Victory_ stow my deck in her first gallery. _That_ is all I need.”

            Clint raised an eyebrow at the moderately puffed-up Frenchman. “You sure about that?”

            “Mais oui.” Remy looked offended to have been even remotely doubted. “Most of her crew are on shore—“

            “’Most’?” Clint shook his head. “Not taking the chance.” He heard the creaking lantern approach and inched toward the adjacent alley. “Hang on.” Feeling around on the ground, he found a chunk of wood from a broken barrel and hefted it, waiting for the dock guard to approach. He figured one good blow to the head would be enough to knock the guard unconscious so he could swipe the keys. As it turned out, the process of beating a grown man into unconsciousness was a little more involved than he’d anticipated.

            The guard had a club of his own, one a little heavier-duty than Clint’s hunk of wet wood, and after the initial bonk failed to incapacitate him, he was quick to use it on Clint. A sharp blow to the ribs, then another to the back of his knee sent Clint sprawling onto the stones. The guard’s boot connected solidly with Clint’s spine. Then he reached for his bell and ringer to alert the rest of the night watch.

            Wheezing, Clint lurched up to stop him, grabbing his wrist and dragging the other man down to the stones. He managed to force the guard’s arms down long enough to recover the bell and ringer from his belt and fling them both into the water. The guard jerked up in an attempt to reach his club, throwing Clint off his back and onto the wooden pier by the water’s edge. Scrambling to his feet, Clint wrapped his arms around the other man’s neck and used his full weight to throw him onto the slatted wood facefirst. That stunned him enough for Clint to deliver a kick upside the head that _did_ knock the guard unconscious once and for all. Breathless, he rummaged through the man’s pockets until he found the keyring and ran to LeBeau’s cell to free him before someone came to investigate the noise.

            LeBeau plucked the keyring from his hand and began flicking through keys. “English keys,” he muttered, “are such shit, I would not even melt them down for bullets.”

            “I’ll keep that in mind.” Clint leaned heavily against the bars, wincing and catching his breath. “Just find the piece of shit that gets you out.” He heard a thump on the docks, presumably the guard picking himself up, and rattled the cell door urgently. “And hurry.”

            “Alors, je comprends, je me dépêche…” the chef grumbled, rattling through the keys. “Mais je ne vais nulle part sans mes petites cartes…” He selected a key and slid it into the lock, grinning in satisfaction at the click of the tumbler. “Voici, you see? First try. La patience pays off.”

            “Great.” Clint did his best not to sound too close to spitting up chunks of lung. “C’mon. You can live without your deck until tomorrow. I just woke up the whole damn neighbourhood, and I’m not getting’ thrown back in one of these over playing cards.”

            LeBeau was about to protest, but as he stepped out onto the street, something gave him pause. “Ah—no need.” He pointed to the pier. Next to the limp dark shape of the cold-cocked guard, right in front of the _Victory’_ s bow, sat a small, ratty pack of playing cards wrapped in a strip of purple cloth. The chef ran over to collect them. “Strange,” he mused, turning them over in his hand. They were damp, but no worse for the wear. “But I will take it!” LeBeau shoved the deck into his pocket and gave Clint an expectant look. “To the…safehouse?”

            “Sorta.” Clint shrugged and unfolded the map Banner had drawn him, turning it a few times to reorient. “There’s a physician uptown giving quarter to pirates and Patriots. Didn’t ask about the French,” he added mock-thoughtfully.

            “Ben, casse-toi, mon ami.”

            Laughing, Clint offered him the map. “It’s not too far. The doctor says he’s got room for all of us if you’re willing to co—“

            _Splash_.

            It was a big one, loud and with the accompanying _ploop_ of something dropped from a significant height. They both looked to the harbour just in time to see the water settle into ripples, big ones that ran over and licked the pier. Clint frowned, squinting into the dark water, but the moonlight made the surface as opaque as the mist.

            “Strange,” the chef said again, scratching his firey hair under his toque—Clint couldn’t imagine why he’d kept _that_ on.

            “Yeah.” Cocking an eyebrow, Clint tapped on the black line Banner had inked onto the map. “Follow that to get to the safehouse. I’ll catch up.” To the Frenchman’s disapproving eyebrow, he nudged the guard with his foot and explained, “Gotta deal with him somehow.”

            “You know the way?” LeBeau took the map, unsure.

            “Yeah. I’ll find you.” He nodded, three-quarters confident in his assertion.

            “Hein. If you say so.” Remy shook out the map and squinted up at the street. “Don’t stay out too late, mon ami.”

            “Bien sur.” Clint knew his terrible accent would provide LeBeau with the appropriate combination of humour and revulsion to send him away. “Buona notte.”

            “ _That_ is Italian.” Remy sniffed and rolled his eyes. “Bonne nuit.”

            In true pirate fashion, Clint bent down to raid the guard’s pockets. He found a few shillings, which he resolved to give to Banner for room and board, a pocketknife, and proof that this particular dock guard had been a hand on the _Victory_ —or, at least, had spent some time picking over the ships he supposedly protected. Tucked into the man’s shirt pocket was a thin gold chain with three rows of delicate links. Clint recognized it from the small velvet bust it sat on in the Grinning Reaper’s quarters, deep within the _Siren’s Tongue_. Even if its owner was gone, Clint thought it would be better to return it to its rightful place, rather than letting some limey guard pawn it for tavern money. After all, the Reaper had stolen it fair and square. He pocketed it, along with the knife, which he knew would be enough to distract Wilson from the money.

            Before he set out for Banner’s, he waited a while on the dock, letting the mist and the quiet of the night roll in around him. He didn’t know _what_ he was waiting for, but the ocean did not deliver; in fact, it was calmer and stiller than ever, the surface barely undulating under the heavy fog. His eyes met the hollowed-out sockets of the figurehead of the _Siren’s Tongue_ , and he couldn’t help but feel as though she might be looking back. It wasn’t _completely_ ridiculous, all things considered. Why couldn’t the nefarious pirate ship with a shapeshifting captain, a soul-bound crew, and magically-enhanced officers have a mind of her own? Why _couldn’t_ the outrageously realistic figurehead be—Heaven forbid it—a _real_ mermaid, petrified alive in the same volcanic glass as the hull and imbuing the _Siren’s Tongue_ with her tortured soul?

            Clint decided the combination of wine, misty full moons, and a general feeling of helplessness were the things great fiction was made of. He gave the guard one last kick. He’d considered dragging the man into LeBeau’s empty cell as an act of ironic triumph, but the hell the cobblestones had played with the alignment of his spine convinced him it wasn’t worth a try. Cracking his back, he turned to start limping back to the safehouse.

            And wouldn’t you know it—

            _Splash_.

            Clint whipped around just in time to see the guard’s head disappear over the edge of the pier as he was dragged under the water. When he reached the edge, all he saw was a mass of bubbles and churning water. Clint bent down to get a closer look and was very nearly beaned in the face with the guard’s elbow as he came flying—choking and very conscious—out of the water, landing hard on the cobblestones. Clint watched, frozen, as the man coughed up a gallon of seawater, wiping his face on his sleeve. Then he watched, abruptly thawed, as the guard picked himself up, a little bloodier than before. Then he realized hotly both how bad of a position he was in, and that the guard still had his club and a brand-new reason to use it. Panicking, Clint prepared to bolt for the alleyway when something grabbed his belt and yanked him backward off the dock.

            He hit the water like a loose cannonball, with enough impact to knock the air from his lungs in one big gasp that escaped in a flurry of bubbles toward the light of the disappearing surface. He flailed and clawed at the water, his chest already beginning to tighten from lack of oxygen. Whatever was pulling him paused to grab him around the waist before dragging him what felt like up into pitch-black. Right about the time Clint started thinking he was going to die, his head broke surface in the small pocket of air underneath the pier, and he took a huge gulp of air. Something clamped over his mouth that felt like a hand, but was a shade of grey in the near-darkness that, from his periphery, was entirely inconsistent with the colour of a hand. The iron bar he assumed was cinched over his stomach tightened, and he was held firmly like that while the guard stammered and staggered above, first perplexed, then alarmed when Clint’s bubbles stopped breaking the surface. Clint struggled, but whatever was holding him did it too well. He gave up, content to wait and breathe quietly, letting a peculiar, fast undercurrent beat at his ankles and listening to the guard’s weary footsteps slowly die away.

            Once they did, he reached back, tentatively, to try and get a hand on whatever had sort of rescued him. He was rewarded with two handfuls of water as it abruptly let go, splashing his face with water as it disappeared under the waves, a flicker of shadow in the moonlight.

 

            When Clint returned to Banner’s gracious accommodations that night, sopping wet, thoroughly confused, and completely fed up with _being_ thoroughly confused, only Natasha was awake to greet him. She was sitting at the kitchen table, staring at the bottom of a bottle of port wine.

            “LeBeau’s been back for ages,” she said without looking up. “What took you?”

            “Long story,” he muttered, sitting down across from her. “What’re you doing up?”

            “What are you doing _wet_?” she asked, seeing him for the first time and doing so incredulously.

            “ _Really_ long story.”

            She sighed, resuming her examination of the bottle. “I can’t sleep. Not down there. Not with him.”

            “He’s your husband, isn’t he?” Clint stripped off his waistcoat and shirt, standing up to reach Banner’s clothesline. “You’re the only one here who _can_ sleep with him.”

            She sighed heavily, gnawing on her bottom lip. Clint couldn’t tell if she had been crying, or was about to start. “He doesn’t even know me.”

            “He doesn’t know his first name, either,” Clint pointed out, pinning up his wet clothes. “Doesn’t mean he doesn’t have one.”

            “What if I’m crazy?” Dropping the bottle in the trash, she gave him a strange, almost pleading look. “What if I only _think_ he’s James because I miss him? I mean, he looks different. The same, but different.” She frowned. “Does that make any sense?”

            “If it’s just the arm, I’m pretty sure he had two when Banner found him.” Clint shrugged. “But I get it. There are a lotta guys running around Brighton with brown hair and brown eyes.”

            “But from the colonies?” Natasha burst out, surprising herself. “And everything is there, everything I remember…the dimple in his chin, the way he’s always kind of smiling…and his voice.” She shook her head firmly. “It _has_ to be him. Doesn’t it? I might mistake his face, but I wouldn’t mistake his voice. Right?”

            “I don’t know,” Clint admitted, using a dishtowel to pat himself somewhat dry. “I don’t know the guy, and I barely know you. But it seems to me, if you love someone, even if you forget everything else, you don’t lose them.”

            Natasha scowled, clenching her fists. “So, what, if he can’t remember me, he never really loved me?”

            “No—“ Clint backpedaled quickly, suddenly reminded how easily she could probably kill him. “I mean,” he went on carefully, “even if he doesn’t remember you, even if he doesn’t know why, I’m sure he still loves you. And if you love him,” he added, pinning the towel up with his clothes, “you’ll help him get back what he forgot. Fill in his blanks.”

            Natasha sat back, pondering that. Then she smirked. “When did you become such an authority on love, Barton?”

            He gave a small, sheepish smile. “I’ve seen love ruin enough lives for stupider reasons than this. It’s easier when you have an outsider’s perspective.”

            “Never been in love?” she teased half-heartedly.

            “Sure. Dozens of times. And I never pegged you as the type to let something like love get her down,” he teased back.

            Natasha was quiet for a second. When she smiled, it was sad. “Just because they call me Widow doesn’t mean I want to be one.”

            “Miss Natalia?” She turned. Barnes was standing in the cellar doorway, hair ratted and eyes heavy with sleep. He held a crumpled blanket over his arm. “I saw you went upstairs,” he said, stifling a yawn. “I, uh, thought you might be cold.”

            She smiled, biting her lip. “That’s okay. I was just about to come back down.”

            “Are you…” He swallowed. “Are you okay?”

            Natasha glanced over her shoulder at Clint, who was pretending to be very interested in the clothesline. She got up, brushing off her clothes. “I’m fine. Thank you.”

            Out of the corner of his eye, Clint saw the man Banner had dredged up from the English Channel effectively drape a blanket over his wife’s shoulders one-handed, linger on her shoulder before catching himself, and watch her walk down the stairs with the kind of melty, dopey eyes girls read poems about. When he went down to the cellar later, in his just-slightly-less-wet clothes, they were curled up in the same corner.


	11. The Dock

              “You aren’t gonna believe it,” Wilson panted, leading a convoy through the streets of Brighton to the docks. “Pete and I were trying to find a way to sneak onto the _Tongue_ —which is _crawling_ with Royal Navy, by the way. This is gonna be rough—and these fishermen came into port screaming about this thing they caught—Well.” He snickered. “I don’t want to ruin the surprise, but it’s the biggest damn fish I’ve ever seen.”

              “I don’t see how that’s _not_ ruining the surprise.” Natasha frowned, keeping a firm hold on Barnes’ arm as they navigated the growing, murmuring crowd around the docks. “And I also don’t see why you dragged us all the way down here for a big fish.”

              “Pete’s at the front.” Shouldering her away, Wilson carved a path through the crowd with a tried-and-true combination of elbowing and pretending to sneeze on people. “Trust me. It’s worth it.”

              “Gotta be more than just a fish if he wants us to see it that bad,” Barnes reasoned, straining to see over the crowd.

              “Wilson would make us drop everything to look at a cool bug in his sock,” she retorted. “And he has.”

              “It had _seven legs_!” the gunner called indignantly, before a monumental gasp from the crowd drowned him out. The clustered bodies blocking their view suddenly parted, recoiling from the dock, making just enough room for Wilson to throw himself gleefully into Parker’s arms, and the rest of the crew to see the two brawny, sun-browned fishermen standing by their little ship, a salt-and-barnacle-crusted trawler with _Pride of St Michael_ cut into her hull.

              Their net hung on one of the booms, stuffed full of big, wiggling silver fish. The fishers were pacing, arms crossed, and muttering to each other, as agitated as the crowd that had gathered around their net. “They’re waiting for the dock inspector,” Clint heard one woman mutter, and it was no great surprise. Pressed up against the weave of the net by the volume of other fish was the tail of something _very_ large. The last three feet of it were visible, the rest buried under the _Pride_ ’s catch. The tail was black, covered in tiny scales that shone blue in the weak afternoon sun, and tapered, ending in a fluke, two lengths of long, silvery membrane mashed against the splintery rope. It was even bigger than the shark Logan had caught cutting its teeth on the hull of the _Siren’s Tongue_ (and promptly dispatched with his bare hands). And while the crowd had gathered around it, the catch had squirmed another appendage free from the net, earning gasps of shock and awe from all the onlookers.

              It was a hand.

              And it was…blue?

              From the front row, Clint could clearly see a hand, wrist, and part of a forearm poking out of the net. It had four fingers and an opposable thumb that twitched and grasped feebly at the air every now and then, but it was otherwise utterly alien. The skin of the hand was a vibrant indigo, and the fingernails were long, black, and sharp, like claws. Below the net, something more than seawater was dripping onto the pier. It could have been blood, but the colour was too deep: almost purplish, like wine.

              “Thing’s still alive,” Logan grumbled from behind him. Clint had a feeling no dock inspector in England was qualified to look over this catch—but damned if he didn’t try.

              “Inspector.” He held up a flap of leather containing his credentials. “And what did _you_ bring into my port today?” He was a balding, bespectacled man in foppish clothes and a placid smile, though he stepped onto the slimy pier without hesitation, rolling up his fine sleeves.

              “Can’t rightly say what we got, Phil,” one of the fishermen replied gruffly. “Thought you might be able t’call it.”

              Phil peered at the sagging net and cocked an eyebrow. “Looks like fish.”

              “Yeah?” the other limey piped up. “Whataya make of _this,_ then?” He beckoned the inspector around to the side of the net hidden from the crowd,     causing the spectators to close in.

              “Ah.” The inspector looked ruffled, but his voice remained calm and even. “That’s new.” Leaning closer to scrutinize the catch, he took a folded-up yardstick from his hip pocket, unfolded it to half, and slid it carefully into the net.

              Instantly, the exposed tail lashed, the whole net bouncing and swinging. It thrashed so wildly the boom holding it up began to creak, and the _Pride of St Michael_ rocked dangerously on her moorings. The visible hand clawed at the air, straining toward the inspector. A furious hissing could be heard along with the struggle of the boom and the slippery sound of wibbling fish.

              Logan grunted in mild triumph. “Told yeh.”

              The hissing and thrashing stopped when the inspector pulled away, his yardstick looking a bit shorter than before. “Careful,” he told the net, almost patronizing. “You’ll hurt yourself that way.” Indeed, the wine-red dripping from the bottom of the net seemed to have sped up, staining the pier in a dark puddle. The inspector dusted himself off and unfolded the rest of his yardstick. “Just keep it for now,” he informed the fishermen. “It’s good Prince George hasn’t left town yet. We’ve been given instructions to let him know about exactly this kind of thing—believe it or not.”

              They exchanged confused looks, but nodded.

              “All right, that’s enough.” Irritably, the inspector waved at the crowd to disperse. “Get on with your lives. And don’t come near this net if you want to keep your fingers.” He shot the two fishermen a pointed look. “That means everyone.” As they reluctantly moved away from their ship, Phil the inspector took a piece of chalk from a pouch at his hip, fixed it deftly to the end of his yardstick, and drew a line on the cobblestones encircling the _Pride_ and her cargo. “This area,” he announced calmly, “is off-limits to all but the Royal Navy, the Royal family, and the employees of the Brighton docks. Sorry for the inconvenience; please enjoy the rest of the day.”

              “So.” Wilson meandered back over, dragging the carpenter behind him. “Weren’t we gonna find Barton some new clothes?”

 

              The barrier around the _Pride of St Michael_ was up within two hours. It was flimsy—just some planks and sawhorses—but enough to deter any more crowds. The dock workers slapping the curious with citations for trespassing were an effective discouragement, as well. The barrier stood roughly on the dock inspector’s chalk line, approximately belly-height, like a fence. Clint hated fences. He had a nasty habit of jumping them.

              Natasha was talking about something—asking him about clothes. He wasn’t listening. He was too busy shaking the last of the heebie-jeebies he got from the mention of the casually murderous Prince George and fixating on the fishermen’s strange catch. And he was still distracted by the memory of his encounter with the dock guard the week before—and the subsequent encounter in the water. Specifically, how whatever had rescued him had covered his mouth, with a hand that didn’t feel or look like a proper hand. It had been cold, smooth, and the wrong shade of grey for human skin. It had been a darker shade—a _bluer_ shade. And thus Clint realized he owed the catch of the day a favour.

              But it was impossible to get close enough to the _Pride_ to loose her cargo, nor could he get aboard a neighbouring shop to hop over. He had no money for a bribe—not that Prince George’s staff would take one if he did. Clint thought about the net and remembered the fraying of the rope holding it to the _Pride_. One good hit would snap it, but a musket shot would bring the dock patrol running from all corners.

              “…right across from the armoury,” Natasha was saying.

              Clint snapped to attention. “Armoury?”

              “Yeah. There’s a tailor right there—“

              “Forget the tailor.” He brightened. “Let’s stop there first.”

              And that was how Clint ended up on the roof of the harbourside tavern at sundown, relishing the familiar feel of a bowstring in his fingers. The bow and quiver were cheaper, and not yet broken in, compared to his own, gathering dust in his boarding-house in Boston, but he was happy to have them all the same. He was the best shot in the Boston militia with a musket, too, but with a bow, he could confidently call himself the best in the world.

              There was still plenty of light in the harbour. Enough for Clint to lock his eyes on the frayed bit of the _Pride of St Michael’s_ net while he pulled and nocked one of his brand-new arrows. The motions were second-nature, even with the foreign bow. The string _eeeek_ ed slightly on the draw, nervous for its first shot. Clint found his target, kissed his fingers, let out his breath, and relaxed his hand.

_Snap_.

              The arrow flew like a dream. It made Clint grin just to watch it cut through the air. It bit into the frayed rope just right, and the weight of the net did the rest, popping free of the boom and dumping its contents all over the pier. Most of the fish splashed into the water, but the big catch hit the deck with a _thud_ and didn’t move. It was still covered in dead fish and net, but Clint could see that the powerful blue-black tail was nearly six feet long, and the thing had at least two arms. Unfortunately, in his giddiness over being reunited with a bow, he hadn’t noticed how large the pool of blood under the net had grown. Whatever it was, it wasn’t likely to have the strength to free itself anymore—and the thud had alerted the Royal Navy.

              Three officers came running. Clint used the commotion to slide off the roof unnoticed, but stayed back to listen.

              “It’s out!”

              “Net broke. Damned fishermen couldn’t be arsed to put it in a cage?!”

              “It ain’t movin’.” One of them gave it a few good kicks and received no response.

              “Well, look,” another one said. “Prince George says dead or alive, we gotta keep it til the king arrives. Is it dead?”

              The third one bent down. Clint heard a faint hiss and the Navy man backed off quickly. “Nearly.”

              “I says put it in the cistern,” the first one piped up. “So if it’s dead, it ain’t out here where the gulls can get at it, an’ if it’s not, it’s got some water to splash around in so’s it don’t die anyway.”

              “All right,” the second one agreed. “I’ll go tell Inspector Coulson. You lot wrap it up and take it out back. The prince says not to be touchin’ it.”

              Clint watched as the two Navy officers brought over a heavy sackcloth blanket from the _Pride_ , rolling the thing up in it. Then they dragged it, with roughly a foot of tail sticking out, through the street and behind the butcher’s shop. Clint followed behind, just close enough to see them pull open a heavy wooden door in the dirt patch behind the butcher and tip their cargo in, blanket and all. There was still a trail of blood along the path of the dragged blanket, and since his first rescue attempt had failed, Clint had to launch another.

              So he came back with a ladder.


	12. The Depths

            Naturally, he didn’t tell Banner, “I’m climbing into a watery pit with an unidentified animal that may have saved my life” to convince him to give up the ladder. In fact, he didn’t tell Banner anything: he just took it.

            He took the ladder and a lamp from the cellar and dragged them both through nothing but narrow alleyways until he got to the butcher shop. Since no one knew the thing had been moved, and there was no way for it to escape from the cistern, the Navy didn’t bother posting guards around the hatch. Still, Clint tried to work quickly and quietly. Just because there were no regular patrols didn’t mean the dock guard wouldn’t notice a heavy wooden door thumping open, or a ladder bobbing around above the rooftops.

            It took a couple tries to get the hatch open, and when he finally pulled it free, a dank, musty, slightly rotten smell flooded out and nearly bowled him over. Luckily, the ladder was tall enough; Clint had begun to get nervous while lowering it in, but it scraped bottom with almost a foot sticking out the opening. He shook it a few times to test its sturdiness, checked his surroundings one last anxious time, then started climbing down, fighting to ignore the pit of dread in his stomach.

            He kept reminding himself the thing was half- if not all-dead, and it had to be at least partially-intelligent to have saved him from the nightwatch, which meant it would either remember him or at least have the good sense not to attack him on sight, but his reminders were all rudely interrupted by the much more convincing images of the long, powerful tail and wicked black claws.

            The reminders kept him climbing down into the darkness, while the images made his hand shake around the lamp. When Clint’s next step plunged his leg into tepid, brackish water, he stopped hanging onto the ladder and felt around blindly with his feet. Where the ladder touched bottom, the water was only knee-deep. He hopped off the rungs and fumbled in his shirt pocket for a match.

            There was no splash, but the stagnant water began to move from a sudden current, lapping at his trousers. Quickly, Clint lit the lamp and raised the wick as high as he could, the warm light bleeding into the stuffy darkness in a bright circle around him. Looking around, he could see the walls of the cistern sloped to the ceiling, and the small, knee-deep patch he stood on was roughly five feet in diameter, dropping off to indeterminate depth. Thankfully, he saw no more blood.

            The current became faster and more agitated, churning the water around his legs. He backed toward the ladder, just in case, and held the lamp out into the darkness. “Uh…hello?”

            Something crunched under his heel. Clint looked down to see he was standing in a pile of tiny fish bones. He juggled the lamp to roll up his sleeve and pick one up. It was pure white, completely cleaned, and covered in divots from very sharp, very strong teeth.

            “So they’re feeding you, huh?” he muttered. “Mad King George’s orders, or his fucked-up son’s?”

            _Splash_.

            Clint jumped to attention, nearly dropping the lamp. The water continued to chop around him, and more so as the source of the disturbance moved closer. Most of it was under the water, but he could just make out the bump of a head moving toward him. He bent down a little, offering his hand like he would to an unfamiliar dog. At the edge of the light, the thing let out a hiss, an increasingly familiar sound, and ducked under the surface.

            Clint frowned, shaking water off his waistcoat as he stood. “Y’know, I’m the one that’s trying to help you,” he told the shadow, which had begun to circle him, staying just at the edge of the lamplight. “You could be a little nicer.”

            Right as he was giving a reproving pout to the place he thought it had disappeared, he felt something flicker against his ankle. Jumping out of his skin and then some, Clint looked around wildly for the perpetrator—and found it looking back.

            It was directly before him, in full light, just under the surface of the water. Aside from the tail it looked almost human, with arms and shoulders and even a navel, right where the blue-black scales began peppering its skin, flowing into the long, whiplike tail. But there was something off about it, something too sharp in the angle of the jaw, something too high in the arch of the cheekbones that gave it an unquestionable, unnerving _in_ human-ness, despite the shape of its torso. Its skin above the tail was a vibrant indigo, like the dye shipped over from the southern colonies, and in the absence of scales, it was covered in strange markings, like lines. They ran along the contours of its muscles, slightly lighter than the deep blue skin, and raised up from its surface. The hair floating around its face was long and black, like the tail, and in addition to the silvery fluke, there were three small, silvery, membranous flaps running horizontally along either side of its neck. Clint would—and probably should—have been keeping an eye on its hands, and looking out for those razor-sharp claws, but he was frozen in place, staring at its eyes. They were ruby-red, completely, even the sclera, and coldly intelligent—

            And, damn it all, familiar.

            Clint inched closer, bending down, but the creature flinched away, eyes narrowing at the light in his hand. He frowned and turned down the wick until the flame was barely a dull glow, then tried again. It didn’t move away, but it watched his hand warily as he reached out, over the deeper water, and ran his fingers through the raven-black curls floating in the water.

            “I don’t fucking believe it,” he murmured, backing away toward the ladder in disbelief. Curiously, it followed, peeking above the surface of the water tentatively.

            Clint grinned, leaning back against the stolen ladder. “Good to see you again, Captain.”

            He expected an eye roll, a reprimand, a sarcastic comment, but instead, his kidnapper, slave master, lover, and man with a lot to explain lunged forward, wide-eyed, and shouted, “Careful—!”

            Clint barely had a chance to be confused before the ladder lost grip under his weight and gave, falling backward into the deeper water and sinking blissfully to the bottom. At the same time, Clint fell flat on his ass, flinging the lamp into a corner of the cistern where it promptly shattered and went out. To make matters worse, the commotion brought over a Navy man on patrol, who yelled, “Shaddup down there!” before throwing the hatch closed and plunged the holding tank into utter darkness.

            The Grinning Reaper lashed his tail and sighed. “Well done.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My sincerest apologies for how short it is--it would've messed up the ending of 11 and made 13 (in progress) WAY too long. At least it's on time!


	13. The Rescue

             Clint spat out quite a lot of water, floundering his way back to the small sandbar. Shaking his wet hair out of his eyes, he squinted into the pitch-black, trying to make out Loki’s shape. “Sorry,” he panted, giving up and slumping forlornly in the chilly water.

            “Well, this is only your first rescue attempt,” the captain replied dryly. “I can hardly blame you for making a few mistakes.”

            “Second attempt,” Clint admitted. “I got the net down, too, but you didn’t—“ He frowned. “How are you still alive? You were bleeding for _hours_.”

            “The real question is,” Loki retorted with a sniff, “how you expected me to escape after bleeding for hours.”

            “ _God—_ “ Clint kicked at the brackish water. “I said I’m sorry. I’m doing my best. I want to get you out of here and back to the _Tongue_ as soon as possible. Just—“

            “—trust you?” Something like an edge of accusation crept into the captain’s voice.

            “Well, I…” Clint drooped. “I thought you already did.”

            The captain went very quiet. “I’d like to,” he murmured after a while.

            “Well, _I’d_ like to know what the _fuck_ is going on,” Clint muttered up at the trapdoor, in which there were a few cracks allowing in nips of dying light. “But I guess neither one of us is getting what we want.”

            “We’ll see.” The water rippled around him as the captain moved through it. When he spoke again, his voice was much closer. “You truly want to go back to the _Tongue_?”

            “Uh…yeah.” Sheepishly, Clint looked away, though it didn’t make much of a difference. “It’s my only hope of getting back to Boston. And even if it wasn’t, I like the crew. And the work.” He swallowed hard.

            “Would you stay on the crew?” Loki asked softly. Clint felt him sink lower into the water.

            He snorted. “Are you offering me a contract?”

            “I could, if you like.” Clint jumped as warm fingers suddenly slid into the spaces between his own. “Is that what you would require in order to stay?”

            Gently, Clint squeezed the captain’s hand, biting his lip. “Honestly,” he mumbled, “I’d stay regardless.”

            A glow started in his periphery, and he turned to follow it. An ice-blue light started around Loki’s wrist and spread through the rest of his markings, and in tiny lantern-lights down the length of his tail. It didn’t illuminate the whole cistern, but it was enough that they could see each other—and, more importantly, they could see the ladder at the bottom of the tank. With barely a flick of his tail, Loki had it and was dragging it toward the surface. Clint took the opportunity to stare. The reflection of the gleaming water bounced on the walls of the cistern. And for as strange a creature as the captain was—not that he’d been entirely mundane to start—there was something fascinating about seeing him in the water, like watching a deer bounding through a forest, or a hawk hunting in a field. Clint could only imagine what it would be like to see him in open water, darting through the waves, lit up like a shooting star.

            “Get Logan,” the captain said when he broke the surface again, pushing the ladder onto the sandbar. “You won’t be able to lift me out of here on your own, and he’s the only one of my officers who knows.”

            “Lift you?” Clint cocked an eyebrow. “Can’t you just give yourself the legs to get out? You switch faces all the time. Your own can’t be that hard.”

            “Ah, the Widow told you, did she?” Loki sighed. “Unfortunately, those particular abilities of mine are beyond my reach at the moment. I can’t change into anything or any _one_ else until I dry off.” He frowned at the water, picking at the wood of the ladder with one claw. “I trust you’re staying someplace I can do so discreetly.”

            “Uh…”

            There would be no way to keep him in Banner’s cellar—not if he insisted on keeping his little blue lie from everyone but Clint and Logan. None of them owned property in the city, and Loki would be no safer on the _Siren’s Tongue_ than in the city jail. Carrying nine feet of merman through the streets would be hard enough to do without drawing attention. Keeping him anywhere was nigh impossible, unless there were any local hotels where the porter was—

            Clint smirked, bending down to straighten the ladder and use it to poke open the trapdoor. “Don’t worry, captain. I’ll find you a place.”

 

            He stood nervously by the plank and bedsheet lain out in the alley. Logan had been down in the cistern for a while, and though Clint was doing his best to stand watch, he couldn’t help but wonder exactly what he was supposed to do if they were discovered. Luckily, it was late enough that few Navy men were pacing the docks, and the butcher drank so hard, they weren’t likely to wake him. Loki had promised no light shows while they were taking him back to Banner’s, but still, Clint worried.

            He heard grunting from the tank and soon, Logan’s head popped out of the trapdoor. He’d climbed the ladder one-handed, with the captain draped over one of his brawny arms like a rescued cat. The sailing master paused by the hatch to scoop the long fishtail into his other arm so it wouldn’t drag in the dirt before depositing the captain on the sheet. Promptly, Loki brushed himself off, wrapped himself up in his tail, and sulked.

            “Don’ gimme that face,” Logan grumbled, helping Clint tie the sheet to the hunk of wood with good, strong sailor’s knots. “We’re not gonna drop ya. An’ it’s better’n waitin’ in that hole fer another week.”

            “Watch your tongue, Mister Logan,” the bundle of blanket said with muffled scolding. “I am still your captain.”

            “Yer a grade-A diva an’ yeh smell like bad cod,” the navigator retorted. “Now belay that. Cargo don’ talk.”

            “You’re not afraid to talk to him like that?” Clint asked once they were headed toward the safehouse. “’Cause all the other officers seem like they’re at least a little scared of him.”

            “S’what I asked fer,” Logan muttered. “Fer him to treat me like a damned navigator, ‘stead of some kinda slave. Like an equal. That includes keepin’ me in the loop s’far as him bein’ what he is.”

            “Huh.” Clint adjusted his hold on the plank. “Natasha told me you were hangin’ on to your gift.”

            The sailing master snorted. “S’what he tells ‘em all so they don’ know they got the option of knowin’ who he is. You talk to Murdock?”

            “Yeah. Told him we got a long-term patient of Banner’s for his spare room. He left the back stairs unlocked for us.” Clint wasn’t sure that Murdock had believed him, but the lawyer had enough discretion not to ask, and had just requested they lock up the back door and not let the “patient” into his law office.

            Logan gave a grunt of approval and pointed the plank around the back of Banner’s house. Loki stayed still and quiet for most of the trip, only making one irritated noise when Clint slipped and send him thumping against the wall of the stairwell. Murdock had left a bedroll and some clean towels in the spare room. Loki waited on the bedsheet, which was now nearly soaked through, while they made up the bed and laid out the towels for him. He was surprisingly polite about it, insisting he would have helped if he were able to get up, and apologizing repeatedly for being unable. When they lifted him into bed, he hit the mattress with a heavy sigh, lying limply on the towels and watching the tip of his tail drip onto the floorboards.

            “Getcha anything?” Logan growled, leaning in the doorway.

            The captain shook his head, eyes softly closed. “Not now. Dismissed. Get some sleep.”

            The navigator nodded and clumped back down the stairs.

            Clint lingered. “You should sleep, too. You look exhausted.”

            “Mm.” Loki squirmed a little on the towels. “I won’t be able to. It’s uncomfortable, however necessary, for me to dry out.” He peeked up at Clint with curious red eyes. “Are you tired?”

            He thought about that. “Not really.” The past few late nights had thrown off his sleep. Nowadays, he was waking closer and closer to noon and falling asleep further and further from midnight.

            The captain brightened. “Will you stay? And talk with me?”

            “Sure.” Closing the door behind him, Clint folded up one of the extra sheets and sat on it by the end of the bed. “About what?”

            “Anything you like.” Tracing patterns on the mattress with his claws, Loki sighed. “I imagine you have questions. The least I can do is answer them.”

            “I gotta couple questions,” Clint admitted to his feet. He was quiet for a while, playing with his hands. Then he sat up straight against the bed. “Are you really Prince George’s brother?”

            “Yes.”

            The answer was immediate enough to encourage more. “Why does he hate you?”

            “I left the family.” The captain’s tone turned dark quickly. “The king always treated me worse because of what I was, though he hid it from me for years. When I learned the truth, I swore to burn the House of Hanover to the ground. The whole mad, lying, thieving lot of them.” He shrugged. “My brother took that as some form of insult.”

            “So when you dry out…” Clint tapped his fingers absently on the floorboards. “What’s the plan to take back the _Tongue_?”

            Loki winced. “It’s not that simple.”

            “What do you mean?”

            He frowned, squirming and shifting on the bed as his drying skin began to itch. “I need to get something back first. A charm. The prince will have found it on my ship and taken it.”

            Curiously, Clint stretched back to face him. “A charm?”

            “Without it, I can’t keep a human form stable. Touching seawater—a cupful is enough—will be enough to make me change.” Scowling, Loki let a few pulses of light, this time angry red, blink down the markings of his forearms. “And as long as Thor has the damned thing, he knows I’ll be susceptible—and veritably useless on land.”

            “Thor?”

            “My brother. A nickname. ‘George’ gets confusing when your father shares the name. Just as ‘William’ gets confusing when you’ve three cousins called the same thing.” The tip of the captain’s tail twitched every now and again as the scales dried, becoming tight and scratchy. “Even while I have it in my possession, I still revert if I’m completely submerged, but it’s a vast improvement, I promise you.”

            “So we have to rob the prince again?” Clint snorted. “Wilson’s gonna be happy.”

            “And Natasha will be furious, undoubtedly.” The captain stretched. “Anything more?”

            “Just one,” he mumbled, “but I don’t think you’ll want to answer.”

            “Go on,” Loki prodded with a teasing grin. “What can I do, walk away?”

            “Okay…” Clint turned around, resting his chin on the edge of the bed. “ _What_ are you? How did you get to be part of the Royal family?”

            Loki stared at him for a while, chewing on his lip, then looked away sharply with hooded eyes.

            He shrugged, rolling his eyes. “I figured. It’s fine—“

            “No, no.” Tail lashing in a vain attempt to gain traction, Loki managed to prop himself up on the pillow. “I’ll tell you.”


	14. The Legend

            They had been out sailing when the storm hit. Too far from the Brittany coast to row ashore, the king and queen could do nothing but hang on for dear life while their crew wrapped up the sails and tried to keep the little sloop abreast of the heaving waves. As lightning streaked across the murky sky, the queen held her four-year-old son to her chest, covering his ears and praying under her breath. Her husband tied safety lines around her waist, then his, and sat with his family near the stern, squinting into the cutting rain. The weather had been fair, so they’d taken the smallest boat, which had no cabin space, and no protection against the vicious spray but extra sailcloth. Each wave sent the little ship rocking to dangerous extremes, the crests of waves washing onto the deck. Crewmen couldn’t even let go of the mast or rails to bail for fear of being thrown off the bucking deck.

            Then, the worst happened.

            The wave hit them broadside, and the sloop took to the air for a half-second, hitting the ocean again with such tremendous force that anything starboard was torn from the deck and pounded into the water, including the royal family. The king was reeled back onto the deck, coughing seawater and shivering. The queen was pulled in screaming and crying, trying to throw herself back into the water over and over, as the current had torn her son from her arms into the dark water. As they held her down, the lookout searched the whitecaps for a little golden head, but the young prince was nowhere to be seen.

            Gradually, the sloop drifted into calmer waters. The rain still beat down, and thunder still rolled over angry dark clouds, but the wind had slowed, the waves shrinking to small breakers. While the queen wept into her husband’s arms, the lookout climbed up the mast to assert their position. When he did, he called out:

            “HANDS TO PORT!”

            Far off the portside of the sloop, a tiny spot of blonde was bobbing in the grey water, inching closer and closer on the current. The crew ran to oar, closing in to pick up the young prince. Suddenly, the water around the sloop came alive with lights, strange flashes and dots of purple, red, gold, and brilliant blue swarming around and under the boat. Things started to bump and tap at the hull under the water, and soft, high keening sounds, like wind over wet glass, began ringing from the water in the bubbles around the ship.

            A long, black tail broke the surface near the sloop’s bow and sent the captain of the ship staggering. “Your Majesty!” he called, waving his men to row, “We’d best get away from these lights!”

            “Belay that!” the king called, perching on a bench to keep an eye on his son. “Ready a line!”

            The captain broke away from the helm to grab a harpoon from under a bench. Positioning himself at the edge of the deck, he took careful aim and hurled it into the water, holding tight to the rope. Something under the surface let out an earsplitting shriek, and the water dancing with lights turned dark with blood. With a heave, the captain dragged his catch just high enough out of the water to show the king. “My liege—look here—“

            While the queen struggled to see over the heads of the rowing men, the king recoiled in horror from the hissing, clawing thing on the end of the spear, which twisted roughly to unstick itself before splashing weakly back into the water.

            “They’re no good, sir,” the captain panted. “Dangerous, bloodthirsty, and bad luck besides.”

            Still almost a quarter-mile away, the prince had begun to splash and claw at the water, no longer dumbfounded by the disorientation of the storm. The king looked up just in time to see a string of bright red lights break away from the mess around the boat and begin streaking toward him. Snatching the harpoon from the captain’s grasp, the king watched and waited in a silent fury as the lights swirled around the panicked young prince, pushing him rapidly toward the sloop. Once the child was within arm’s length, the captain grabbed him away from the creature, and the king buried the spear in its throat. With a choking, gurgling sound, the creature fell back into the water, dark purplish blood spraying onto the deck. In a flash, the lights dispersed, shrinking into the depths of the ocean.

            The queen clasped her son to her chest, scowling. “Did you need to _kill_ it?” she spat, stroking the boy’s hair. “It saved his life.”

            “You can’t possibly know that’s what it intended,” the king growled, handing the spear to the captain to clean. “We’re going home, Charlotte. Now.”

            The queen didn’t protest, but she refused to speak to her husband as they turned the boat around and flew out the sails. The sloop began to cut through the waves of the ever-quieting storm, making a brisk pace back to shore. They’d only been thrown a few hours off course.

            The queen held her silence obstinately until they reached the first familiar landmark, a tall, rocky cliff riddled with cave mouths and rocky outcroppings. She stood bolt upright and hushed the chattering crew, squinting over at the rocks and listening intently. For a moment, no one heard what she was listening for. Then a high, pitiful whimpering, like the mewling of a lost kitten, carried over on the breeze. It could have been the wind in the cave tunnels, but it was irregular, and had a scratchy, throaty kind of edge to it. The queen stiffened and pointed. “Row over to the rocks.”

            The captain hesitated. “My Queen—“

            “Do it.”

            The king opened his mouth to overrule her and for it earned the third-coldest look he would ever receive in the entirety of their marriage. He only shrugged. The sloop made its way over to the rocks slowly, the reedy cries louder with each stroke. When the bow scraped up against the jagged formations below the surface, the queen looked around wildly for their source, to no avail. Before anyone could stop her, she gathered her skirts and dropped into the water, wading into the nearest cave mouth.

            With the whole crew prepared to jump in after her, the king sighed, handed off control of his son to the captain, and stepped carefully into the water. “She can’t be stopped when she’s like this,” he told the anxious crew. “I’ll look after her.”

            He met her at the entrance to a cavern that split off into three tunnels. Shushing him, she pointed into the one to the far left, where what should be winking in the water, but tiny, brilliant blue lights. As the king’s eyes adjusted to the semidarkness, he saw the creature he’d speared laid out on a shelf of rock. Its deep blue skin was ashy, its burning red eyes pale and glassy. The wound in its neck was washed of blood, gaping white bone and dark muscle to the open air. The markings on its body and tail no longer glowed.

            And there was a little one.

            No bigger than a human toddler—except for the three-foot tail—it was pawing at the older creature’s stilled chest with tiny, humanoid hands that had not yet grown the long black claws of the adult. Its wide, bright red eyes were shining with tears, and the ice-blue lights along its tail and markings—which were near-identical to the adult’s—were dim and wavery. Whimpering, it nuzzled the adult’s cheek and neck, first gently, then with increasing desperation. Finally, it gave up, threw back its head, and let out a long, miserable wail before collapsing against the other creature’s lifeless body. Its markings slowly faded to a dull, sleepy orange.

            Inadvertently, the queen let out a small, heartbroken “oh!”.

            The smaller creature sat straight up, crimson eyes wide and alert, then slipped silently into the water and went dark.

            “Oh, the poor thing,” the queen mumbled. “George, you’ve orphaned it.”

            “There are more,” the king muttered. “Another one will raise it.”

            “Do you _see_ any more?” she retorted, tying her skirts around her waist briskly. “It’s only a child.”

            “It’s a _fry_ ,” he pointed out. “It’s not human.”

            “Well.” The queen rolled up her sleeves and sniffed. “They saved my son. I should like to return the favour.”

            “Charlotte—!” He reached out to stop her, but she was already moving toward the tunnel, bending low in the water and holding out her hand to the shadow where the young one had hidden.

            “Come on,” she cooed, slipping her hand under the water and offering it to the creature. “It’s all right.”

            The shadow flickered as the little thing darted away. With a sigh, the queen climbed up onto the slab of rock where the dead creature lay. The little one immediately peeked out of the shadows, lighting up blue from head to fluke, watching her with wary red eyes. Gently, the queen brushed the tangled black hair away from the creature’s forehead, closed the faded blue lids over its eyes, and folded its arms across its chest. Each motion brought the young one closer and closer to the surface, until its eyes were poking up out of the water, right at the edge of the stone. When the queen took out her rosary and began to pray, it climbed onto the ledge and scooted clumsily toward her, reaching for the little blue beads. She opened her eyes, smiling, and offered it her prayer beads, but the sudden motion made it shy away and let out a soft approximation of a hiss, its luminous markings flashing red.

            “Shh, shh…” Carefully, she backed off. “I won’t hurt you, little one. I promise.”

            It scrutinized her face, appearing to understand before throwing itself back on the adult’s chest, pressing its face to the cold skin and letting out another helpless wail.

            “I know.” The queen smiled sadly and laid her hand on the dead creature’s chest, close enough for the little one to catch her scent. “I’m so sorry they’re gone, dear…Please don’t cry.”

            It stopped keening to sniff, then nuzzle curiously at her fingers. Gently, she moved her hand into its mess of wet black curls, stroking its head until its eyes fluttered closed and it pressed into the curve of her palm with a soft hum. Carefully, she removed her outermost skirt and draped it around the little creature’s shoulders, pausing to make sure it wasn’t frightened. It seemed more interested than afraid, watching curiously as she wrapped it and held it to her breast, making sure not to bind the tail too tight. Stepping tentatively back into the water, she carried the thing back to her husband, its markings now gleaming a deep purple as it burbled and played with the lace around her collar.

            “You’re joking,” the king said flatly, wrinkling his nose.

            “I am deadly serious,” she replied, teasing one of its curls loose from the blanket. “The least I can do for the intelligent creature you murdered unquestioningly is give its orphaned child the best home in Britain.” Without looking at him, she started back for the boat. “If you see an issue with the exchange, perhaps I should acquire a father figure with a warmer heart for _both_ our children.”

            “But—I—“ The king sighed in defeat. “Are you going to leave your prayer beads with this…carcass?”

            “Yes,” she shot over her shoulder, “I am.”


	15. The Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (This is explicit as it's gonna get. Just be aware.)

            They talked long into the night. Most of it was Clint telling stories about the life he’d left in Boston; he figured, since he’d learned more about Loki in a week than the captain had shared in years, it was only fair he give something back. They weren’t, with the exception of the one about Stark’s premature shot at Lexington, particularly _good_ stories, but they seemed to keep Loki’s mind off the process of drying out. From what Clint could see in the faint moonlight, there wasn’t much that happened outwardly, but the captain complained of various itches, scratches, and pinches throughout the night, and he could never seem to get comfortable, spending a lot of time squirming and flashing various colours. From what Clint could tell, the coloured lights seemed to correspond with certain emotions, and once he learned what they were, it became a lot more fun to watch Loki while they talked.

            “I think they’re cute,” he said once they had run out of stories, stretched out on the floor next to the bed. It was almost sunrise, and he was starting to droop in spite of himself. “The lights, I mean.”

            “Oh?” The mattress made more _shff, shff_ noises, and Loki gripped the towels tightly to keep from scratching at his skin. “Do tell.”

            “I think it’s funny how you can’t stop ‘em.” Clint yawned, kicking off his shoes. “You try so hard not to show too much emotion with your face, but the lights give you away.”

            Loki pouted. “They give me away?”

            “Sure.” Rolling his eyes, Clint counted them off on his fingers. “Red is angry or scared, orange is sad, purple is happy, and the blue’s your default…haven’t seen any others, but I know those are right.”

_Shff, shff_. Loki tried to pull the towels around himself to hide the markings, but their glow reflected faintly on the ceiling, giving him away to the whole room. He sighed. “Those are the only colours I’ve seen. I’ve seen others like me turn gold, but I don’t know what it means.”

            “It’s cute,” Clint said again, stifling another huge yawn.

            “I suppose it is one of the few charming things about this form. Or at least one of the less-savage aspects.”

            “Nah.” He rolled over onto his side. “It’s cute. You’re cute.” He closed his eyes to the irritated flashes of red and fell asleep with a smile.

 

            When Clint woke the next morning to sunlight flooding the spare bedroom, the captain was all dried out and fast asleep. The only hints remaining of his true form were a few scatterings of dried, curled-up, iridescent blue scales stuck to the towels. There were scratches on his wrists and ankles, shallow and pink and presumably self-inflicted from the itching he had complained of. Clint was struck by how _human_ he looked—not just in the absence of the fishtail, gills, claws, etc., but devoid as well of the trappings and postures of a dreaded pirate captain. The Grinning Reaper, a name cloaked in mystery and drenched in blood, was the furthest thing from an outcast prince, and yet royal in his own right, with a kind of imperviousness perpetuated by his legacy and aura in equal measure. Stripped off all that—ship, crew, scythe, power—lying on a cot in a blind lawyer’s storage room, he commanded neither respect nor pity, neither obedience nor punishment. He just looked tired, the pale skin under his eyes dusted in shadow, and, curled into a weak, exhausted ball around the thin pillow, he looked sad.

            He was also completely naked, which shouldn’t have surprised Clint as much as it did, given his previous experiences and the practical inability of a water-dwelling creature with no hind limbs to wear undergarments. Not wanting anyone to walk in on Loki before he had a chance to compose himself, he eased the towels out from under the sleeping captain, gathering them up so as not to spill scales all over the room, and draped the extra sheet over him. While pouring the dried scales surreptitiously into the neighbouring alley, Clint heard a soft hum, and turned to see Loki snuggle up happily in the sheet, burying his ample height entirely in the folds Clint had used as a makeshift bed the night before.

            With a small smile, Clint finished cleaning the towels and folded them on the dresser before slipping out to the hall to swipe some extra clothes from the cellar. Nothing of Banner’s would fit the captain, but Barnes was close enough to the same height, and, unlike the crew (including Wilson, who _was_ the same height), he had more than one change of clothes handy. But the moment he stepped into the stairwell, he heard voices that sent him right back upstairs. He wasn’t sure about the overall trustworthiness of the officers, and he didn’t want to jeopardize the return to the _Tongue_ —and Loki’s safety—by revealing the Reaper’s vulnerability. When he closed the door behind himself, back in the bedroom, Loki was awake.

            “Good morning.” The captain stretched, letting the sheet fall where it may.

            “Morning.” Politely—and perhaps a bit shyly—Clint looked pointedly at the foot of the bed.

            Loki frowned. “What’s wrong?”

            “Nothing.” Swallowing, Clint wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers and went to sit on the bed. “I was going to find you some clothes, but everyone’s up and about downstairs. Gonna have to wait.”

            “Mm.” Lying back against the pillows, Loki ran a hand through his hair, easing out the tangle. “Don’t bother. I can acquire clothes.” He sat up, leaning closer and resting one hand on Clint’s thigh. “I’ll get to it.”

            Clint gave the hand on his leg a smirk. “So you’re feeling back to your old self, huh?”

            “Tragically not.” Stroking the leather of Clint’s trousers absently, the captain sighed. “I always feel…shaky, when my skin is unstable like this. As though I need something more…something to ground me.”

            Stopping the captain’s fingers in their slow ascent, Clint snorted. “You’re lying.”

            Loki blinked. “I beg your pardon.”

            “There isn’t a drop of salt water in this room,” Clint scoffed, running his thumb gently over the back of the captain’s hand. “Nothing’s gonna make you change. You’re just nervous because I know your secret—all of it—and you want to own me again, so I won’t tell.”

            The captain was silent for a while. Slowly, he pulled his hand away. “You say that as if it won’t work,” he muttered, pouting to himself.

            “More in the sense that you don’t have to do it that way.” Carefully, Clint scooted closer, running a hand over the sheets. “I’m not telling anybody you don’t want me to. You don’t have to pound me into a mattress to get me to keep my mouth shut. I just will.”

            Perplexed, Loki pulled the sheet more tightly around himself. “You will?”

            “I like you,” Clint admitted. “It used to just be intrigue, but…you’re not as mysterious as you think.” Biting at his bottom lip, he fiddled with a handful of sheet. “I care about you, crazy as it sounds. And maybe it’s just me, but I kinda get the impression you feel the same.”

            “I do,” the captain said softly, almost immediately. “As much as I tried not to, I do.”

            It was quiet, words hanging in the air. For a while, they just looked at each other, waiting.

            Loki swallowed, letting go of the sheet and beckoning with one finger. “Come here.”

            No sooner had Clint leaned over than he was pulled desperately into a kiss, less like the commanding, crushing, biting kind he’d become accustomed to, and more like their first, messy and anxious. When Clint came reluctantly up for air, he felt something like a warm breeze and, in the next moment, realized his clothes had disappeared and folded themselves neatly on the floor by the bedside, along with the sheet. He smirked, panting against Loki’s neck. “Nice trick.”

            “I have more,” the captain murmured into his temple, pulling him closer to trail kisses behind the shell of his ear. “For now and later,” he added, nipping at the lobe.

            Breath hitching, Clint pressed closer, running his hands up Loki’s sides. He’d been given rules before, when he was only serving his captain: he had been expected to refrain from excess touching or demanding of any kind, and to keep himself exquisitely well-groomed, in ways that were both embarrassing and difficult to do on a pirate ship. While he was happy to have followed some of the rules, even in the absence of his captain, others, he was eager to break.

            Equally eager lips moved down his neck, leaving a trail of dark, throbbing bruises. Loki’s hands ghosted appreciatively down his chest and thighs, and Clint let out a gasp as the captain gripped his ass, pulling his hips in closer and moaning into the curve of his neck. Loki’s hips twitched up involuntarily, his cock brushing the inside of Clint’s thigh. Clint spread his legs almost automatically, tightness building in the pit of his stomach. Already, the prelude was more than he’d ever received in the captain’s quarters, and it appeared Loki had been holding back.

            He was painfully aware that he was already hard and shivering, and the more Loki teased—trailing wet fingers across the insides of his thighs, nibbling at the hollow of his neck, sucking mosaics of bruises into the skin between his hips—the worse it got. Even his entrance was twitching, every now and then, anytime Loki’s mouth or a finger got close—he’d been too panicked and confused to realize it, the past few days, but Clint was teetering on the edge of starving.

            In one fluid motion, Loki had him flipped onto his back, legs in the air. Worriedly, he opened his mouth to remind the captain he was still dry, no matter how badly he wanted it, but Loki didn’t give him a chance. “Shh,” he purred, kissing the inside of Clint’s knee softly and stroking the backs of his thighs. “You won’t have to worry about that for a while, my pet.” His voice was low, velvety, and dark, like the day they’d met.

_Pet_. Clint shivered again, letting out an involuntary moan. The word stirred something hot and fluttery within him, and he melted into the captain’s touch, rolling and pawing at the sheets as Loki’s kisses inched further and further up the inside of his thigh. Then his kisses were higher, licking and working Clint open slowly and deliciously. He couldn’t help but arch his spine, toes curling against the sheets, gasping in spite of himself. The heat in his stomach started to pinch, and it became a monumental strain just to hold himself back from coming right there.

            He must have said something to that effect, because the captain pulled away, licking his lips. It was around this time, in his quarters, when Clint was lying completely undone, that the belittling would start the “look at you”s and “aren’t you desperate”s. Instead, Loki kissed up to his neck again, pressing two fingers to his entrance, and murmured a word into the underside of Clint’s jaw that he didn’t recognize, but after which he felt Loki’s fingers slip into him effortlessly, suddenly slick and warm. Shuddering, Clint’s hips twitched down onto the captain’s fingers, guiding them breathlessly to the tight spot of nerves on his inside. But they refused to touch on it, curling and teasing in every but the right spot. Clint must have been whining or panting in frustration, because the captain’s breath was in his ear, whispering, “Be patient, my dear. I have to make up for the months I neglected to pamper you…”

 

            When Clint regained consciousness, Loki was getting dressed. It was surreal to watch. He just plucked the clothes out of the air; there would be nothing, then a flick of his hand, and a waistcoat would be hanging from his fingers as though it had always been. Fumbling with his own clothes, Clint watched as the captain conjured up his new ensemble, all dark grey wool and deep purple silk—which was odd, because for as long as Clint had been with Loki and his ship, he’d never seen the captain in anything other than black and green. Folding his coat over one arm, Loki turned, catching Clint staring, and smiled.

            “Do you like it?” He preened, reaching back to tie up his hair in a dark violet ribbon. “I can’t very well go around in my own clothes with my useless brother’s troops crawling the docks. This is something I had picked out for you, actually.” Carefully, Loki rolled up his sleeves. “I’ve had to change the size a bit, but if you like it, when this is all over, it’s yours.”

            “Honestly? It looks better on you.” Clint grinned, sliding off the bed. “But everybody wants me to have new clothes so bad, so I’ll take what I can get. Now c’mon. Get your bloodthirsty pirate face on. Your crew missed you.”


	16. The Reveal

            “I don’t understand why he would even _keep_ a jar of spiders!”

            “He does the same thing on the _Tongue_. Remember?”

            “No! I feel like if I had, I would have known not to throw the damn thing out.”

            “It’s fine, James.”

            “He’s down there _crying—_ “

            “He’ll get over it. Wade’s down there seducing him, too.”

            “…Seducing?”

            “You don’t remember? We used to try and drown them out—“

            “See that, I wish I _did_ remember.”

            From the stairwell, Clint could actually hear Natasha roll her eyes.

            “So Barnes has reappeared,” Loki murmured, ear pressed to the door to the kitchen. “They sound the same as always.”

            “Except he can’t remember shit.” Clint toyed with the doorknob. “Are you actually waiting to make an entrance?”

            “Shh.” When relative silence fell in the kitchen, the captain nudged him in the ribs. “Go on.”

            Pulling the door shut quickly behind him, Clint stepped into the kitchen. Natasha stood by the basin, scrubbing copious brown-butter stains out of Banner’s crockery, while Barnes sat at the kitchen table, pinning a chunk of driftwood between his knees to whittle it one-handed. Natasha looked up when she heard the door shut, dried her hands on the towel tucked into her belt, and frowned.

            “Where have you been?” she demanded, crossing her arms.

            “Murdock’s place,” he said simply, shrugging, grabbing a towel from the clothesline, and going to dry dishes.

            “For a day and a half?!” Throwing up her hands, Natasha returned to the basin. “Don’t tell me you were trawling the docks. Even Wilson gave up doing that. There are too many Royal Navy in anticipation of King George’s arrival.”

            “Once he leaves town, they’ll go with him,” Barnes piped up, shifting his hold on his carving.

            “I haven’t been down at the docks,” Clint promised. “Don’t worry.” Behind him, he heard the stairwell door open and close. Natasha didn’t look up this time, scrubbing at a particularly nasty spot of crusted cheese.

            “You’ll need warmer water to get that out.”

            Natasha stiffened, dropping the pan into the water with a splash and whipping around to face the Reaper, wide-eyed.

            Loki smirked and reached past her to touch one finger to the surface of the water, which bubbled once and began to steam. “Try that,” he suggested, patting her shoulder.

            “You—you—you—“ Throwing aside her dishtowel, Natasha shook her head. “You drowned. In the Channel.”

            “Is that the boss?” Barnes set aside his carving, cocking an eyebrow.

            “This is the _captain,_ ” Loki corrected gently, inspecting his fingernails, “who saved you both from imperial assassins. Though it appears one of you has forgotten that.”

            “That and everything else.” Natasha crossed her arms. “Can you fix him?”

            “Would you mind terribly convening the rest of my officers, Widow?” Ignoring her, Loki strode over to the table and picked up Barnes’ discarded carving. “I should like to speak with you all together.”

            “But—I—“ Glancing between the cellar door and her husband, Natasha hesitated.

            “Go on.” He waved her out, watching her slink grumbling down the stairs. The minute she was gone, Loki sat at the table, scrutinizing a very confused Barnes and turning the wood carving over in his hand. “Fascinating,” he murmured. “You remember nothing?”

            “Just my surname,” Barnes admitted, picking lint off the shirtsleeve tied over his stump. “From the moment I woke up on the doctor’s table to now. Natalia told me some things—I mean, I know she’s my wife, now, and I guess I was part of your crew—but it hasn’t stirred anything up. Nothing’s come flooding back, I mean.”

            “But your memories aren’t _gone_ ,” Loki pressed.

            Barnes snorted. “I dunno. Sure feels like they are.”

            “They can’t be. Clint. Look at this.” Beckoning him over, the captain held up the carving. “Isn’t an eagle the symbol of your little band in Boston?”

            Clint shook his head. “The Sons of Liberty use a tree—wait.” He squinted at the eagle’s neck, of which only a small amount had been freed from the driftwood. “Barnes, it that gonna be a shield?”

            The other man nodded. “I guess. I don’t know why, but that’s what I felt like putting there.”

            Loki cocked an eyebrow. “What is it?”

            “The eagle with a shield on its back is a family symbol in the colonies,” Clint explained, handing the carving back to Barnes. “For the Philadelphia Rogerses. Steve Rogers is the captain of the Sons of Liberty. And if you’re the James Barnes I think you are, he would’ve been your best friend.”

            “Well, I think this resolves all doubt,” Loki muttered. “Not only as to your past, but that your memories are somehow locked away, not erased.”

            With a growl, Barnes pushed up from the table. “I’m sick of this. I’m tired of everyone knowing something I don’t.” Chucking his wood carving into the corner, he scowled at Loki. “Natalia told me you can do pretty impossible things. Did you do this to me?”

            Loki’s eyes widened. Clint was suddenly reminded who had given Natasha the nickname “Widow” in the first place. But the captain shook his head. “No.” His voice was even, grounded, and his words weren’t as careful as when he lied to his crew. “You were a good boatswain, James. I would never do something like this to you.”

            “Well, can you fix me, then?” the angry Patriot demanded.

            “He’s BACK?!” Wilson’s voice exploded from the stairwell, making all three jump. Boots thudded on the cellar stairs as the gunner galloped up them.

            “Can you _fix_ me?” Barnes hissed again before Natasha could join them.

            Loki sighed, biting at his lip. “I don’t know.”

            “Don’ know what?” Logan grunted, squeezing back in from the narrow hallway.

            “Ho-ly shit, he really is back.” Scratching his scabs through his hat, Wilson pounded on the door frame of the cellar. “PETE! C’MON!”

            Parker skittered up the stairs, peeking over Natasha’s shoulder with red-rimmed eyes. “Wow. I’ll be damned.”

            “No, you won’t.” Loki stood, falling seamlessly back into his captain’s posture. “Not as long as you work for me.”

            “Oh, thank fuck.” Clasping his heart, Wilson swooned in relief. “Now we can get the _Tongue_ back! I was worried my sea legs were gonna dry up.”

            Clint stifled a laugh and glanced at Loki, thinking about the captain’s own “sea legs”. Loki must have gotten the joke, because he rolled his eyes, looking pained, before opening his mouth to address his crew.

            “Bougez, bouge-toi, Monsieur Logan! Putain la merde, vous tout le monde—vous dites ‘Cook, Remy, cook, oh, pauvre we!’—mais, do they help buy the food ? Non, non, send the Frenchman _alone_ to the filthy English markets and let him _guess_!” Bustling into the kitchen, LeBeau heaved three bulging bags of food onto the counter. “If you all are going to stand about, you all are going to help me prep!”

            The officers exchanged glances, then all eyes turned to Loki. The captain cocked one eyebrow and cleared his throat lightly.

            “Ben, oui, je vous vois, mon capitain.” Rolling up his sleeves, LeBeau glanced back and acknowledged Loki with a nod. “Merci à Dieu that _you’ve_ decided to come back into our lives. Le capitain,” he added loudly with a derisive look at the rest of the crew, “ _appreciates_ la viande tartare.”

            “Raw meat goes bad,” Logan grumbled. “Quick.”

            “Tiens, vous gens, vous vous avez déjà gâté,” the chef told his scallions bitterly.

            “How did you survive?” Wilson blurted out, looking the Reaper over as though checking for strings.

            “The real question is, Mister Wilson, is how you so willingly believed I would not.” Loki sniffed. “I trust you’ve all kept true to your contracts?”

            “No one’s said a word.” Natasha crossed her arms. “The guards here don’t like us any more than they like you. The only people who even know what ship we hail from are the lawyer upstairs and the doctor who gave us quarter here.”

            “Ah, yes…And where is the good doctor?” The captain looked around, eyes settling on the door to Banner’s office, which was always locked during business hours. “Kindness such as his ought to be rewarded…and we’ve been sailing too long without a surgeon.”

            “Oh, Banner won’t sign on,” Wilson scoffed. “He’s got a good gig here. Nothing to run from.”

            “Oh, certainly not.” Turning his eyes on LeBeau’s back, the captain smirked. “Professional success is certainly nothing to run from—isn’t that so, Remy?”

            The chef jerked like he’d been shot and bent lower over his vegetables. Laughing, the Reaper went over to the office door, trying the knob to no avail. “Remember why you’re all here,” he murmured, passing his hand over the knob and trying it again successfully. “Everyone has something to run from.” Pushing open the door, he beckoned Clint to follow.

            “We _are_ going to take back the _Tongue_ , then?” Parker piped up worriedly.

            “Oh, yes.” Grinning, the captain held the door for Clint. “We’ll do it tonight. The king arrives tomorrow, and I’d rather not entertain him.” He looked ruefully down at his clothes. “I’m hardly dressed for it.”

            “Are you ever gonna explain the ‘brother’ thing to them?” Clint hissed once the door was closed. “We all heard the prince say it—“

            Loki shrugged him off. “Logan will take care of _that_ mess.” He locked the door again and turned away with a pleasant smile. There was no patient in the office, but Banner was bent over paperwork, scribbling and utterly immersed in the details of his last patient’s particularly nasty rash. The captain approached and sat on the exam table. “Hello, Doctor…I don’t believe we’ve yet had the privilege of meeting.”

            With a sigh, Banner turned, taking off his spectacles and cleaning them on his shirt. “You’re the Reaper.”

            “I am.”

            “I heard from your crew,” Banner said with a heavy stretch, “your ship could use a surgeon.”

            The captain snorted. “We get by. The life of a pirate’s surgeon is vastly different from that which you lead now.”

            Banner let out his breath, slipping his glasses back on. “That’s exactly what I’m hoping for. Murdock, too.”


	17. The Song

            “On the authority of His Majesty King George III, the following prisoners are to be executed tomorrow at high noon.” Inspector Coulson stood on a crate by the bow of the HMS _Victory_ , reading off a roster as Royal Navy officers marched the crew of the _Siren’s Tongue_ belowdecks. “For one count each of high treason and piracy, Natalia Alexeeva—“

            “ _Duchess_ Natalia,” she snapped, elbowing her escorts as much and as hard as possible as they dragged her down.

            Coulson ignored her and went on. “For _two_ counts high treason, one count piracy, and one count resisting arrest, James Barnes—“

            “C’mon, boys. You don’t have to be so rough. It’s not like I’m heavily armed.” Barnes didn’t bother struggling, teasing his captors half-heartedly.

            “For one count each high treason and piracy, and six counts—I’m sorry, six _teen_ counts of first-degree murder, Wade Winston Wilson—”

            Wilson stepped up onto the gangplank, grinning and bowing to the booing, scowling crowd, and jumped down into the hold with no need of an escort.

            “For one count each high treason and piracy, and one count grand larceny of royal property, Clinton Barton—”

            He tumbled down into the brig, squinting in the near-darkness. Before he could steady himself, someone punched him hard in the stomach, and he buckled to his knees, gasping. Natasha’s boot collided with the side of his head, throwing him onto the floor of the hold.

            “Great fucking job, Barton,” she hissed, stepping on his fingers “We’re one step closer to the _Tongue_ , all right. We’ll be able to see her from the gallows.”

            “Lay off him, Widow.” Wilson rolled his eyes, playing with the flame of one of the lamps. “We’ll get out. It’s not like this is the first time we’ve all been arrested.”

            “It’s my first time,” Clint muttered into the floor.

            “But it _is_ the first time we’ve all been arrested with no captain to bail us out!” Natasha glared at the gunner, stomping on Clint’s back to keep him down.

            Wilson scoffed. “Whose fault is that?”

            “ _Yours_ , you numbskull!”

            “You can’t _possibly_ prove that.”

            “ _You’re_ the one who brought in a bucketful of seawater for _God_ knows what hare-brained reason—“

            “ _Not_ just seawater. A really cool crab.” Wilson pouted.

            “We spent all that time keeping the Reaper away from the water, and you dumped it on him the second you got in the door!” Natasha crossed her arms, glaring daggers at him.

            “Logan tripped me!”

            “Shut yer hole, Wilson, I swear ta—“

            “Okay, he didn’t, but nobody _told_ me it was gonna turn him blue and fishy,” the gunner pleaded. “And the Navy finding out wasn’t my fault.”

            “Didn’t they tail you back from the docks?” Barnes asked dryly.

            “Okay, well—“

            “You fucking idiot—“ Natasha stepped off Clint’s back and grabbed the paring knife from Barnes’ belt. “You’re gonna get us all killed. God only knows what’ll happen to the crew when they kill the Reaper—“

            “They’re not gonna kill him,” Clint mumbled, picking himself up hastily. “I’m not gonna let them.” He made a point of pushing Wilson into the uneven wall as he squeezed over to the door. He was preparing to knock when it swung open from the other side, three grim-faced Navy officers behind it.

            “Which one of you rats is Barton?” one of them growled as the other two threw a dazed Parker and an unhappy Banner into the brig. “He’s been summoned.”

            “Uh.” Exchanging glances with the rest of the crew, Clint raised a hand.

            Immediately, all three grabbed him and yanked him out of the hold.

            “Hey—!” Wilson stepped over the pile of doctor and carpenter and tried to squirm through the door. “No fair!”

            “When the prince calls for the rest of you,” the Navy officer spat, “You can come out, too.”

           

            They marched Clint up a few levels to the royal gallery at the _Victory_ ’s center. As they moved through the corridors, more and more of the sailors passing them had clumps of something white and fluffy sprouting from their ears, and once they reached the second level up from the prison hold, Clint understood why. Something was rumbling deep within the _Victory_ , rattling the ship to her bones. It was deep enough that it thrummed through the walls, but there was another layer to it that was high, clear, and penetrating, like the ringing of wet glass over a low, reverberating hum.

            And it was _loud_. It pounded painfully in Clint’s head, churning his stomach and clouding his vision with black spots. Frantically, his escort pulled hunks of waxed cotton from their pockets and stuffed them into their ears before taking Clint up again and dragging him down the hall. The force of the noise left him breathless, and each step was harder and more confusing than the last. They barely got him up the next ladder; his head was throbbing, and his limbs felt like tepid jelly. He didn’t remember falling down, but the last thing he saw before blacking out was his escort scrambling after him down the stairs.

 

            He came to in a spacious room decorated in tapestries and fine, oiled wood. There were no windows, and the large part of the room was taken up by a huge wooden table decked out with golden candelabra, bouquets of twigs and flowers, and gilded vases. Clint woke in a heap on the dirtiest, most threadbare rug in the gallery, relieved that the sound from the hallway seemed to have ceased. He sat up blearily. Something near his ear itched, and he scratched at it. Dried blood came away on his fingernails.

            “Are your ears ringing?”

            Clint jumped, looking up sharply. The prince was sitting in one of the tall, decadently-upholstered chairs at the big table, watching him with mild amusement. Scowling, Clint picked himself up, wobbling toward the door.

            “I wouldn’t,” the prince mumbled as soon as he touched the knob.

            Gritting his teeth, Clint gripped the handle hard. “It’s stuffy in here.”

            “Thick walls.” Leaning back in his chair, the prince cocked an eyebrow. “They keep that racket out. Outside of this room, you won’t get three steps without this.” He held up a ball of cotton before hiding it in the pocket of his coat. “Not unless you want to pass out again.”

            “Guessing you’re not in the mood to just hand that over,” Clint grumbled.

            The prince shook his head. “I want to talk, first.”

            “I don’t.”

            “Of course you don’t. My brother’s gotten to you.” Prince George sighed. “Would it help if I told you your friends won’t actually be executed?”

            Clint rolled his eyes. “I’d believe that—if the dock inspector wasn’t rolling up the gallows outside.”

            “All for show.” The prince shrugged. “Tomorrow at noon, my father will have arrived, and he’ll grant all the officers of the _Siren’s Tongue_ full royal pardons. Your Russian friends will even be offered royal protection and amnesty until they can return to their homeland.”

            “Only one Russian friend,” Clint muttered. “Barnes is from New York.” He frowned. “What about the captain?”

            Prince George bit his lip. “William and the king have a personal issue to resolve. And we can’t exactly let him go back to pillaging British ships.” He shifted uneasily. “Hopefully, he’ll agree to come home.”

            “Doubtful.” Clint snorted. “His _Majesty_ told Loki to fuck off. Plus, you dropped him into the Channel to drown, and _then_ you hauled him onto this ship like the catch of the day—“

            “I did know he wasn’t going to drown,” the prince pointed out.

            “Daddy lied to him about who he was, then disowned him when he figured out the truth,” Clint snapped. “There’s no way in hell he’d agree to go back with you, and you know it. So what do you _really_ want from him?”

            The prince was quiet for a while. “ _I_ want him to come home. I cannot truthfully say Father wants the same thing, but I’m tired of this feud Loki has concocted. We should be focusing on the aggression of the colonies—no offense to present company intended—but my father is so consumed by this feud he refuses to address what’s happening overseas.”

            “Y’know…” Clint cocked an eyebrow. “That doesn’t exactly incentivize me to help you all make up.”

            “Then don’t.” The prince shrugged. “You can be executed with the rest of his officers.”

            He scowled. “You gotta pick one. Bad guy _or_ good guy. Can’t play both if you wanna get what you want.”

            The prince laughed, a deep rumble that for all intents would have been pleasant if Clint hadn’t hated him so vehemently. “You _have_ been spending a lot of time with Loki, haven’t you?”

            “More than you know,” Clint retorted, crossing his arms.

            “Oh, I know.” Prince George snorted. “I’m familiar with his appetites. You’re not precisely his type, but I can’t say I’m surprised.” He rolled his eyes. “I suppose that’s why you’re so intent on protecting him.”

            “I’m protecting him for the same reason the other officers are.” Kicking at the plush rug with his dirty boots, Clint looked away. “Contract.”

            “Of course you are.”

            Clint was about to snap back when something _thump_ ed against the door of the gallery, sliding down the hardwood.

            The prince huffed. “Someone didn’t pack his ears tightly enough.”

            “Yeah, what _is_ that?” With a wary glance at the door, Clint frowned. “How is it knocking people out?”

            Sitting up straighter in his chair, the prince crossed his arms. “Did Loki not tell you what he was?”

            Clint rolled his eyes. “Yeah. I found out about his fishy little secret after you threw him off the _Tongue_.”

            “No.” Cocking an eyebrow, Prince George pushed back from the table, scrutinizing him. “Did he _tell_ you?”

            “Well—“ The captain had never given any name to it, Clint suddenly realized. Unsure what the prince was implying, he shifted uncomfortably. “He doesn’t really _have_ to. I’ve seen him…it’s pretty self-explanatory.”

            The prince laughed again, shaking his head. “I should have known. He wouldn’t want you, of all people, to know the truth.”

            Ignoring the sick feeling in his stomach, Clint dragged his eyes up from the carpet to glare at the prince. “Watch it, ‘Thor’. Your daddy isn’t home yet, and your crew still can’t hear shit.”

            The prince only scowled at the nickname, picking dust off his lapel. “He’s a siren.”

            Clint frowned. “So?”

            “’So’?” Indignantly, the prince stood up. “Do you have any idea what a siren is?”

            “It’s like a mermaid.” Clint shrugged. “So what?”

            Thor stared at him. “Exactly what legends do they tell in the colonies?”

            Clint scowled.

            The prince sighed. “Sirens are the scourge of European waters. Deep-water merfolk who sing to lure sailors to their doom. Their voices are so powerful they can drive men to madness, sickness, infatuation—anything to get captains to sink their ships.” He moved closer, reminding Clint abruptly how close he was in size to the average English house. “They strip the shipwrecks for gems, precious metals, any trinkets they can hoard—” He snorted. “Something like pirates, actually, except they have a tendency to devour the drowned bodies of the crew, as well.”

            “So Loki’s the one making that noise?” Clint did his best not to flinch. “Probably because he’s locked up.”

            “Yes.” Breaking away to pace on the carpet, Thor nodded. “He’s in the ballast hold until the king arrives.” He smirked. “I wonder what he would think if he knew his little tantrum had struck you down, as well.”

            “Yeah?” The second the prince’s back was turned, Clint snatched the dagger from his belt, kicking Thor hard in the back of the knee and shoving him to the ground. Thor rolled onto his back, dazed, and Clint pounced on him, pressing the dagger to his throat and pinning his arms to the ground with his knees. For a moment, both were stunned—the prince by the sudden attack, and Clint by exactly how much pirate he seemed to have adopted. Clint recovered first and remembered to be menacing, leaning into the prince’s face and growling, “Take me to him.”

            Thor rolled his eyes. “I don’t have to—“

            Clint buried the dagger in the carpet an inch from his ear.

            The prince swallowed. “But if anyone can shut him up, I suppose it would be you.”


	18. The Siren

            The ballast hold was dark, tiny, and damp, with a distinctively moldy, clammy smell leaking from the cracks in the waterlogged wooden door. Even with his ears stuffed, Clint would feel the vibrations from the siren inside thrumming through to his skull, rattling his teeth in his head. Steeling himself, the prince pounded on the door, trying to shout over the noise to no avail. Giving up, he worked open the door, motioning for Clint to enter first.

            It was a short step down into the hold, into about three feet of briny, tepid water. The lamps lining the walls were extinguished, but the cloudy water glowed dimly from deep red lights flashing and contorting beneath the surface. Deep scratches were illuminated, running up the walls and the back of the door from the ceiling to the water line. As they watched, the strings of red lights coiled up in the center of the hold, then darted at one of the walls, ramming at nowhere near full strength. The hold was so small and so shallow Loki barely had room to turn completely around, let alone work up the speed to break out.

            The prince pulled the door shut, stepping down into the water. Staying upright, with the effects of the wailing magnified by the enclosed space, was an ordeal, but while Clint found himself clinging to the wall for stability, Thor seemed to have no trouble, crouching over the water and tracking the lights’ path with his eyes. When Loki swept by to try for the door, the prince dove into the murky water, dragging the pirate captain out in a wrestling hold and forcing his forearm into Loki’s open mouth, muffling the debilitating sound.

            Struggling, tail writhing in the water, Loki clawed at the prince’s arms, sinking his teeth into the flesh blocking his airway. Once they were all thoroughly soaked from the thrashing tail, and the walls were thoroughly splattered with Thor’s blood, the Reaper gave up, going limp in his adopted brother’s arms and extracting his razor-sharp teeth from Thor’s flesh. He sighed, making a vague motion for them to unclog their ears, which they did. Then he crossed his arms and pouted. “You didn’t need to be so rough.”

            “Oh?” Hefting the captain to adjust his hold, the prince snorted. “How else would you suggest I get your attention? It isn’t as though you would have heard me over the clamor you were making.”

            “And whose fault is that?” Loki snapped, markings pulsing brighter angrily.

            “ _Yours!_ ” Thor scowled. “Nobody forced you to shriek up and down my ship—“

            “No one forced _you_ to keep me down here like _cargo_ , you brainless sack of hot air—“

            “You’re a _criminal_ , Loki. And it doesn’t give you the right to spread sickness in my crew—“

            “ _Criminals_ go in the _brig_ , Thor. Is this your first kidnapping?”

            “There isn’t _space_ for you in the brig! Not with that tail!”

            “Rubbish. You’re keeping me down here on Father’s orders, like some kind of oddity or _monster_ —“

            “Well, you’re acting like one!”

            “Both of you, stop!” Pounding on the door to get their attention, Clint crossed his arms. “If I wanted to hear this much bitching, I would’ve stayed in the brig with Wilson. And I wouldn’t have had to get knocked out by your singing to do it, either,” he added, cocking an eyebrow at Loki.

            The captain stiffened, red eyes wide. “It knocked you out? Oh, pet…I’m sorry.” He reached for Clint’s hand worriedly.

            Thor held him fast, chuckling. “’Pet’, eh?”

            Hissing, Loki took another snap at his brother’s fingers. Thor jumped, dropping him with a splash and leaping away. To the snickers bubbling up from the surface of the water, and the teasing purple lights, he scowled. “That’s precisely what I’m talking about,” he sniffed when Loki resurfaced. “You can’t just _bite_ at people. It’s uncivilized.”

            “More or less so than throwing them into the Channel?” Loki spat.

            “ _Enough_.” Clint pushed between them pointedly. “The king’s on his way, and I want to be halfway to Spain before he gets anywhere near Brighton. Give Loki back his charm so we can get the hell up out of here.”

            “Charm?” The prince frowned. “You mean the one that keeps him…mostly human?”

            Loki rolled his eyes. “No, the charm our Swedish maid crafted us to protect the butter from fairies.” Carefully positioning himself between the prince and the exit, he sat up, wrapping his tail around himself. “My word. I do believe spending all your time with Father has, by some marvel, made you even duller.”

            Thor gave him a withering look. “I don’t have your damned charm. I’ve not seen it since you left home.”

            Clint frowned. “But—“

            “ _Liar!_ ” Exploding into blinking red, Loki lunged at him. “I dragged myself over every inch of the _Tongue_. One of your men took it. I know you wouldn’t let a mere Navy officer keep it. Father would want you to hold it yourself, to keep me prostrate like this.” He let out a hiss, digging his claws into the wood of the door. “God knows you’d never disobey his wishes like that.”

            “I don’t have your stupid collar,” the prince sniffed, crossing his arms.

            “Collar?” Clint blinked. “Is that what it is?”

            Thor nodded.

            “It’s a _necklace_ ,” Loki corrected, glaring at the prince. “A gold chain with three rows of links.”

            Something twinged in Clint’s stomach, and he did his best to check his pockets as subtly as possible.

            “It’s a collar,” Thor insisted, snorting. “And I didn’t see it on your ship. If one of my men took it, he didn’t bring it to me.” He winced. “You are right Father told me to look for it—but I’m afraid I can’t help either of you.”

            “I am not leaving without that charm,” Loki spat.

            “Just as well,” his brother retorted. “Perhaps if you actually stayed long enough to _talk_ to Father this time—“

            “I have _nothing_ to say to that sniveling, half-senile, feeble old buffoon. Now, _sing_ , on the other hand…” the captain teased.

            “You wouldn’t.”

            “Try me.”

            The heavy air in the ballast hold hummed with tension. The brothers stared each other down, both just shy of growling. Clint shifted uncomfortably, feeling the gold links still weighing down his pocket.

            “I can’t believe, after all these years, that you would side with _him_ ,” Loki said finally, deadly soft. “After everything he did to us.”

            “Did to _you_ ,” Thor retorted, cracking his knuckles. “I was only punished by association. You were always making trouble—“

            “He treated me like a disease no matter _what_ I did!” Loki spat. “He believe he had a monster for a son, so that is precisely what he got. You used to agree with me on that.”

            “ _You_ used to be a good person, Loren,” the prince replied, almost pleading. “You meddled, certainly, but always harmlessly. Now you’re the most dreaded pirate in the Atlantic. And I know you didn’t earn that reputation through mere rumour,” he added darkly. “You lie, you kill, you torture—“

            “I’m only the following the illustrious example set for me by the House of Hanover,” the captain sniffed. “The king’s administration—that which you will inherit—is far bloodier than I.”

            “We can change that. Both of us.” Thor was back to begging, crouching low in the water to meet his brother face-to-face. “I’ll find your charm, and you can come home. The Grinning Reaper disappears as mysteriously as he appeared, and we can both work with Father to fix it all. The family, the country, everything.” He laughed wryly. “Your talents are put to better use in a palace than on some rickety old ship, anyway.”

            Eyes widening, Loki hissed, recoiling from the prince. Clint was almost yanked off his feet as the captain’s tail wrapped around his legs in what might have been a protective gesture. “Nothing could make me leave my ship,” he snarled, markings flaring dangerously. “Or my crew. I’d sooner die.”

            “Loki…” The prince huffed. “That could very well happen. If you don’t at least _try_ to appeal to Father, to display a little—“

            “A little _what_?” Pulling himself up taller against Clint’s leg, Loki scowled. “Don’t you _dare_ say _humanity_.”

            “You could be hanged for what you’ve done,” Thor snapped. “Is that what you want? The Royal Navy lifting you into the gallows over a pointless feud?”

            “I will face my crimes,” Loki retorted coldly. “But not before you burn for yours.”

            Thor puffed himself up to reply, but a Navy guard cut him off, yanking open the door of the ballast hold and breathing a sigh of relief. “ _There_ you are, Your Highness.” Curiously, he tried to peek into the hold. “Is that thing still in there? When we heard the noise had stopped, we all thought it might have bumped off.”

            “It’s calmed down.” Brusquely, Thor pushed the guard back into the corridor and stepped out of the water. “What do you need?”

            “Well, the whole crew’s been looking for you, Your Highness,” the Navy man admitted. “The king’s processional’s been spotted, and you’re to come welcome your father.”

            “Yes, of course.” Thor looked down at his dripping clothes and frowned. “Give me a minute to change, Miller. Then I’ll be up.”

            “Yes, sir.” With a half-bow, the Navy man returned topside. Thor left for his quarters, shooting Loki a final triumphant smirk before swinging the hold door shut and bolting it in place.

            Clint looked down. Loki was back to being the only source of light in the room, still clinging to Clint’s leg forlornly. Half-heartedly, he tried stroking the captain’s hair, but the dots of light along Loki’s tail faded to a depressed orange anyway. When he spoke, though, it was still packed with vitriol and the illusion of anger.

            “So,” he mumbled, resting his head on Clint’s hip, “how do you like my brother?”

            “He’s a dick.” Gently working through the tangles in Loki’s wet curls with his fingers, Clint snorted. “And I can’t wait to see the look on his dumb face when we take back the _Tongue_ and sail her outta here in broad fuckin’ daylight.”

            Loki laughed hollowly. “I’d like to see how you plan on freeing the whole crew, getting past the bulk of the Royal Navy, and hauling all nine feet of me aboard a heavily-guarded pirate ship, all by yourself. Even if I incapacitate the _Victory’_ s crew again, you’re more than likely to get yourself killed in the process.”

            “Who says I’ll be alone?” Clint grinned, leaning down to hoist Loki further out of the water. “That might be a tall order for a lowly minuteman, but for the most feared pirate captain in the Atlantic? Piece of cake.”

            “The red eyes and claws may be off-putting, but I assure you,” Loki replied dryly, hanging limply over Clint’s arm and gesturing to himself. “This isn’t too terribly frightening dragging itself across the floorboards and stopping every few minutes to scratch off itchy scales. "With a sigh, he nuzzled into Clint’s hand helplessly. “Without my charm, I’m no help to you.”

            “’Bout that charm.” Juggling Loki from arm to arm, Clint fished the gold chain he’d stolen back from the Brighton dock guard out of his pocket and dangled it in front of the captain. “Does it look anything like this?”


	19. The Reunion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost finished! Sorry for the length--there was a lot I wanted to fit in this one. Enjoy!

            The king established himself quickly as a highly impatient man. The moment he stepped onto the _Victory_ , he made it clear he refused to wait ‘til dawn.

            “Bring out the prisoners!” he demanded, pacing the _Victory’_ s decks and looking over her crew with distaste. “I want a look at the slime that has been enabling Loren’s charade all this time.”

            The Navy men scrambled to comply as Thor emerged from the bulkhead. He approached the king carefully and offered a half-bow, steeling himself for chastisement. “Welcome, Your Majesty.”

            King George only grunted, patting the prince on the shoulder. “Straighten up, Theodore. I need you looking lively when we strike that rotten crew from existence.”

            Thor winced, following his father to the upper deck. “I thought they weren’t to be hanged ‘til dawn, sir. If at all.”

            “With the aggression from the colonies, I’d like this mess wrapped up as quickly as possible,” the king retorted, bracing his hands on the quarter deck’s railing to survey the entire ship. “The sooner those pirates are dead and that blasted shop destroyed, the sooner we can all go home.”

            “All?” Hopefully, Thor took a step closer. “So you’re willing to talk—to try and reconcile?”

            “Of course.” Glancing over his shoulder, the king smiled encouragingly. “Nothing would make me happier than for the three of us to return home as a family.”

            Breathing a sigh of relief, Thor tried not to watch as the pirates were marched out, one by one, and lashed to the main mast.

            “Except, perhaps,” the king added, muttering to himself, “if our carriage were to be set upon by thieves and by coincidence, that _thing_ was stolen off to a freak show, where it belongs.”

            A cold chill ran up the prince’s spine. He inched over to the ladder in hopes of getting belowdecks to warn Loki, but his father spotted him and frowned. “Where you going? It’s time you witnessed a royal sentencing, boy.”

            Thor swallowed, but stayed where he was. “Of course. My apologies, Father.”

            “Hmph.” With a snort, the king faced forward again, sneering down at the officers of the _Siren’s Tongue_. He waved over an officer without ever tearing his eyes from the mast, and snapped, “Get me Inspector Coulson.”

            “Of course, Your Majesty.” The man scampered off.

            One of the _Tongue_ ’s crew, a sun-browned sailor with long brown hair and no left arm, spotted the king, then, lifted his chin proudly, and began shouting, “Down with King George! Long live the States!” over and over.

            Snarling, the king bolted down from the quarter deck, snatching the sword from his son’s hip as he went. Navy officers parted in his wake, allowing him to bear down on the main mast and bury the sword’s tip in the wood, just inches from the one-armed man’s face. The pirate shut up, but he didn’t flinch, even as King George leaned into his face, glaring daggers.

            “A colonial sympathizer,” he spat, ripping the sword out of the mast with a horrendous crunch of metal on wood. “I would expect no less from Loren’s pathetic crew.” He seemed somewhat put out that the pirate hadn’t been spooked more by his outburst.

            “Sympathizer?” The man laughed. The red-haired woman next to him stretched her bonds specifically to nudge him in the ribs to stop. He ignored her. “No, Georgie, I’m a Patriot. A minuteman. And even without the _Tongue_ breathin’ down your neck, you got no chance of stopping the colonies from becoming what we should have been all along—free, United States.”

            “James!” the woman hissed, glowering at him. “What are you _doing_?”

            “England has never had anything to fear from you Rebels,” the king replied scathingly. “And she never will. Your militia will fall to God and country.”

            “That’s what _you_ think,” Barnes teased, leaning back against the mast as though he scarcely noticed his bonds. “Until Mother Russia comes for you.” Grinning, he nudged the red-haired woman back. “Tell ‘em, Natalia.”

            “What?!” She jumped, scowling at him. “What the hell are you talking about?”

            “Don’t wanna tell him? Fine.” Barnes gave a lopsided shrug. “I’ll do it.” Drawing himself up against the mast, he gave the king a playful smirk. “While you’re busy fighting in the colonies, Empress Catherine’s troops are already headed for your territories in Europe. You’ve been spendin’ all your time chasin’ down the Reaper, you didn’t even notice. It’s too late to stop it. England will fall to the Empire, and America _will_ be free!” With that, he hocked and spat directly at the king’s feet before laughing triumphantly.

            King George stared at him, boiling, but with more confusion than anything else. “That—“ He frowned. “That can’t be so.” Puzzled, he shook his head. “For Catherine’s troops to come all that way…one of our allies would have noticed by now.” Fuming, the king advanced on the ranting Patriot. “You speak nothing but foolishness and slander.”

            After a long moment, Barnes snorted. “Yeah.” He shrugged, grinning. “But I kept you busy well enough, didn’t I?”

            The king blanched, gripping his borrowed sword. “Guards—!”

            Barnes cocked an eyebrow, glancing back at his fellow officers. “Remy? Go.”

            The chef cackled, opening his pocket to let his glowing red playing cards swarm, descending upon the Navy men standing by like a plague of locusts. The aces lingered to slice through the crew’s bonds before joining the pack, with LeBeau running after them to direct the carnage like a mad conductor. Parker leapt up into the lines, and in a matter of seconds, dropped a pile of salvaged weapons, accompanied by the lookout’s unconscious body; Wilson took the former gratefully, adjusted his hat, and went to work.

            Natasha helped Barnes drag Banner out of the fray, pausing by the gangplank to throw her arms around his neck. “God,” she breathed, pressing into his chest, “it’s so good to have you back.”

            With a smile, he pulled her into a kiss while Banner gagged behind them. “You staying for this round?” he asked when they broke apart.

            She shook her head. “The doctor and I are busting out the crew. Then we take back the _Tongue_ and get her ready to launch.” Wilson had tried to toss a Navy pistol Barnes’ way and overshot; she snatched it out of the air and pressed it into his hand. “You’re in charge here, boatswain.”

            “Aye-aye, Mistress.” With a wink, he cocked the pistol and charged back into the chaos.

            Natasha hoped off the _Victory_ and caught the keys to the county jail as they were tossed to her. Leading Banner away from the docks, she nudged the newcomer toward the Navy ship and smiled. “Give ‘em hell, Murdock.”

            The lawyer grinned, twisted his walking-cane into two pieces, and ran up the gangplank to crack Royal Navy skulls.

            As it turned out, the _Victory_ ’s crew had gotten lazy, and they didn’t do well against the element of surprise. A pile of unconscious Navy men began accumulating in the storage hold, and before King George could blink, he and his son were outnumbered. Cackling, the _Tongue_ ’s gunner slammed the cast-iron grate of the hold shut, leaving only the king, Thor, and a few groaning, bloodied officers on deck.

            “Get up,” the king barked at his remaining guard. Only one of them even tried to stir. He scowled. “Get _up!_ ” They just lay there, panting and tending to their wounds. In despair, he looked back to the pirates warily, backing himself against the quarter deck, and said, very clearly and deliberately, “Parley.”

            The _Tongue_ ’s officers (and one helpful lawyer), scattered around the Navy ship’s deck, exchanged glances. Then Wilson started giggling, covering his mouth at first before folding over into a full-on belly laugh, rolling on the polished wood of the _Victory_ ’s fine deck. The other officers joined in, with even Logan cracking a rusty smile. LeBeau shook his head, sighing happily. “Comforting. Le roi des idiots—c’est aussi un couard.”

            The mere sound of French made the king wrinkle his nose in disgust. He frowned, taking a step forward insistently. “Isn’t that what they say among your kind? Parley! I want to—“ Parker dropped out of the lines then, pulling in the gangplank to cut the _Victory_ off from the dock, and King George visibly gulped. “I want to talk,” he finished, somewhat shakily.

            “Sure you do,” Logan growled, sticking his claw-knives back in their sheaths. “Be a damn shame to die on a wreck like this. Blue blood might stain ‘er deck.”

            The king’s eyes widened. “You would _kill_ —“

            Barnes rolled his eyes and unloaded his stolen pistol where the king could see it. “Nobody said that. But—“ He winced. “You _can_ only call parley with a ship’s captain.”

            “An’ he ain’t showed up yet,” Logan grumbled, cracking his hairy knuckles and a smile when he saw how it made the king squirm.

            “And I’m _tremendously_ sorry for it, too.” The king jumped a mile and a half when the Reaper seemed to melt out of the shadows behind him. Dressed again in his fine black leathers, his eyes glittered a coldly playful green once more, and the weapons at Logan’s side were more like claws than the nails he dug into the king’s arm. But he was no less dangerous, his voice still flowing with the tang of honeyed wine that, with the right notes, could drive sailors to madness. And the scythe, shining at his waist, was sharper than any siren’s teeth—and twice as hungry. Gripping the back of his adoptive father’s jacket, Loki grinned, shoving him away from the door belowdecks and into the light. “Why, Father,” he teased with a mocking gasp, “I do believe, for the first time, you look _happy_ to see me.”

            The king scowled abruptly to wipe the relief off his face. “William Loren Augustus, I have neither the time nor the patience for your games. I want to talk—“

            “Yes, yes, I know—parley.” Rolling his eyes, the captain continued dryly. “Do say that more. You _butcher_ the pronunciation, and my chef just _adores_ it.”

            Remy grimaced, which the king ignored, turning his back on the crew to stare Loki down. “Belligerent as always,” he scoffed. “You are such headstrong creatures.”

 

            Clint squeezed out of the trapdoor behind the mast as stealthily as possible, sighing in relief when Barnes ducked back to help pull him free. “Thanks,” he panted, closing the trap quietly and brushing himself off. “How you feelin’?”

            The boatswain ran his tongue over his teeth and made a face. “Throat still burns from that stuff the captain gave me. What _was_ that, anyway?”

            “Siren’s blood.” Quickly, Clint untucked his shirt, pulling a wrapped bundle from underneath and undoing the twine. “When you weren’t affected by his singing before, the Reaper figured you must be under another siren’s spell already. Probably heard a song when you got thrown off in the battle with the HMS _Gloriana_ —“ Hurriedly, he unpacked the simple leather quiver and bent down to string his new bow. “His blood broke the spell. Or it was supposed to.” Clint paused, glancing up curiously. “Did it?”

            Barnes nodded, taking the quiver out of his way. “Feelin’ more and more like myself every minute. Don’t worry.”

            “ _I_ wasn’t the one who was worried,” Clint reminded him.

            “I know.” With a sheepish grin, Barnes passed the quiver back, helping him strap it to his back. “She’s pretty happy. And I’m happy to have her back.”

            Clint smiled, plucking his bowstring to test it. “She get off the ship okay?”

            The boatswain nodded. “Murdock says he heard the jail doors open a bit ago. The _Tongue_ ’ll be ready.”

           

            “I am what you made me,” the captain replied smoothly, turning away from the king and making his way up to the quarter deck as he spoke. “Monsters are not born, _Father_. Any pain I have caused is an echo of that which I have suffered. Collared, locked away from fear I might touch a drop of dreaded seawater— _beaten_ ,” he added with vitriol, “for so much as _looking_ at a sheet of music—“

            “To control that damned voice!” the king exploded, trailing behind. “To protect you and the whole household from the _sickness_ you can inflict! Controlling your destructive urges—“

            “Even had they existed, curbing such urges is _no_ excuse for beating a ten-year-old unconscious!” Gripping the rail of the quarter deck, Loki glared down at the king, daring him to approach. “Hiding what I am is _no_ excuse for starving me, demeaning me, splashing salt water in my eyes in hopes of teaching me to fear it—it is _no excuse_ ,” he went on, words turning to ice in the air, “for catching your fifteen-year-old son trying to hang himself in the cellar and _leaving him to do it_.”

            The king recoiled as though he’d been punched in the stomach. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, tempered. “Maybe so,” he said slowly, inching toward the ladder to the quarter deck. “But none of that excuses the tortures you’ve inflicted on innocent lives.”

            The captain grinned, wide and triumphant, backing away to where Thor was frozen on the far side of the quarter deck. “You’re right.” Delicately, he slipped the sickle out of its sheath, twirling it into the light. “Including this one,” he added, grabbing the prince’s hair and forcing the curved blade to his throat.

            “ _NO!”_ The king threw himself at them, shoving the prince out of the way and knocking the scythe harmlessly to the floor. Frantically, he dove for it, but Loki dug his knee into the king’s gut, throwing him back against the aft railing. Before the king could move, though, he held a finger to his lips, whispering, “Shh.”

            King George froze. Thor, in a heap on the quarter deck, very wisely decided to stay down.

            Eyes glittering, the captain grinned, and, in a whisper the whole ship could hear, said, “Listen.”

            Softly, ringing over the waves below, came a keening, dozens of voices slipping in and out and around one another, like fingers on wet glass. The _Victory_ hummed with the force of them, and goosebumps ran up every human spine in the vicinity. The king visibly shuddered, eyes widening. “…No.”

            Nodding over the side, the captain licked his lips. “Look.”

            Hesitantly, King George took a step toward the railing, peering over the side. The _Tongue_ ’s officers did the same, and even the wounded Navy men dragged themselves up to peek curiously down at the water.

            The surface bulged and rippled from the movement of the lights below. Bright dots of red, blue-white, and purple swarmed and darted through the water. Even a few trails of brilliant gold flashed as they circled the ship. The lights tricked the eye, making it impossible to see which lights belonged to whom, let alone how many there were, but from the way the ocean churned and beat against the _Victory’_ s hull, there had to be dozens.

            The thought was not lost on the king. He backed away from the railing, swallowing hard. “How many?”

            To answer, Loki smiled sweetly, and then—his lips didn’t move, but something vibrated in the back of his throat, the same silvery, glass-bell sound that emanated from the waves, but brassier, tracing through six disjointed notes before fading away.

            Instantly, the noise from the water rose to a cacophony, and as the king watched in abject horror, the whole of Brighton harbour burst alive with coloured lights, until the water was roiling as far as the eye could see with sirens flitting just below the surface.

            “I called in a favour,” the captain explained, shouting over the deafening song. “This is just the pack from the Brittany coast—can you believe it? Almost seven hundred of them.” He made a noise like a pennywhistle, and the other sirens dropped to a murmur. “All of whom, I think,” he added, snickering, “can out-swim _you_ , Father dear.”

            In a last-ditch moment of bravado, the king snorted. “And you plan to man-handle me over the side, for them to rip me to shreds. What a brilliant way to convince me your kind _aren’t_ monsters, Loren. Truly a testament to your intelligence.”

            Loki rolled his eyes. “Oh, please. I gave up convincing you of that long ago. But it _is_ a rather permanent solution to how you irritate me, and ‘monster’ is such a subjective term, anyway.” He shrugged. “I’m quite sure I’ll get over it.”

            Furious, the king puffed himself up. “If you think I will be so easily cowed—“

            _Thwip_.

            The arrow zipped through the air in a beautiful arc, burying itself in the royal right eye. The king let out a scream, clapping a hand to his face in a feeble attempt to stem the flow of blood and vitreous, and he staggered backward, enough so that only a hard shove was needed to send him over the side. And the Reaper was more than happy to oblige.

            In his half-blind rage, King George lashed out, grabbing hold of the lip of the quarter deck. Reeling from the pain, he could only dangle, his eye still streaming blood that rained down on the sirens below and whipped them into a frenzy, tasting his weakness in the water. Blue-black tails broke out of the sea and beat at his dangling legs. Loki scowled, reaching for his discarded sickle to cut the king’s fingers away, but before he could—

            _Krrnch_.

            The king choked, every inch of him recoiling from the pain in his broken fingers. Stunned, he put up no resistance when Thor kicked his hand away, breaking his hold on the _Victory_ , and sending his father tumbling down to the waves below, where black-clawed hands dragged him down into an abyss of angry red lights.

            Loki stared at the prince, frozen. As the sirens’ song died away, he asked, “Why?”

            “You tried to _hang_ yourself.” Thor swallowed, inching closer to the captain. “And he did nothing to stop you. He couldn’t have cared less.”

            “He put the rope in my hand…Did—“ Dazed, Loki blinked. “Did I never tell you that?”

            “No, you didn’t!” Gripping his brother’s arm, Thor took a deep breath. “I should never have stood with him. I never _would_ have, had I know how horrible—“ He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Loren.”

            The Reaper was stunned. “Well. I.” He glanced over his shoulder at his crew, who only stared back, then let out his breath. “Thank you.”

            Thor nodded, turning to go down the ladder. Loki cleared his throat, and the prince stopped, turning quizzically.

            The captain shifted and took a tentative step forward. “Would you—“ He paused, wincing. “Would you like passage back to France? Since I do believe it will be some time before this old girl is up and running,” he went on, casting a rueful but proud glance at the shambles of the _Victory_ ’s crew. “There _is_ room for you on the _Tongue_.”

            Thor smiled, throwing his arm around his brother’s shoulders and hugging him. “That would be wonderful.” Clapping him playfully on the back, he added, “Perhaps I could take a look at one of your famous contracts while on board.”

            Loki laughed, shoving him toward the ladder. “I think, in light of recent events, it may not be the best time to go job-hunting.” Nodding to the spot of blood and eye-fluid that was all that remained of King George III, he cocked an eyebrow. “I think you may already have some shoes to fill.”

            The prince snorted, stretching. “Let Mother run the country for a time. God knows the last thing England needs is another George on the throne.”

            “Fair enough.” Dusting himself off, the captain looked to his officers. “What do you think? Will the _Tongue_ take to him?”

            Barnes sniffed, looking the prince up and down. “I dunno. He’ll make a good cabin boy.” Grinning, he shrugged his shoulder-stump. “I know I can use an extra hand. Leastwise ‘til we get back to the colonies and I call on my silversmith.”

            Parker took off his glasses, leaning back against the mast and cleaning them on his shirt. “I can always use help belowdecks. He can be a runner.”

            “Yeah, he looks big enough to lift cannon,” Wilson piped up. “I don’t have a problem with it.”

            Logan snorted, picking his teeth. “Yer takin’ on an awful lotta officers.” He jerked a thumb at Murdock, who was screwing the halves of his cane back together, and the _Tongue_ herself, where Banner was helping Natasha and the non-commissioned crew toss unconscious Navy men onto the pier. “Barracks’ll be crowded.”

            “Ha!” LeBeau barked a laugh and crossed his arms obstinately. “Another English brute to cook for. And this mountain, does he eat like one? If you take him on _La Langue_ , I want only to serve him avec les oignons. No other way.”

            “Your objection has been noted, Mister Logan,” the captain said sharply. “And yours is ridiculous, Monsieur LeBeau. Go wait on the _Tongue_.”

            The chef’s lip curled, and he stomped off to lower the gangplank.

            Clint was wrapping his bowstring when he felt the captain’s eyes on him and looked up. Loki glanced at Thor and back to him questioningly. When he asked, his eyes were as soft and pleading as they had been the very first time he’d said it:

            “Pet?”

            Carefully, Clint set his bow and quiver down and approached them both, shooting Thor a wary look as he took the captain’s hands. “You really wanna know what I think?”

            “I should think your opinion matters more than most,” Loki said softly, squeezing his hands.

            Clint nodded, looking up to search his eyes. “Well…” He swallowed. “If he’s gonna hurt you again, I don’t want him anywhere near the _Tongue_. But if he keeps his ass in line…” He cocked an eyebrow. “Do I get to boss him around?”

            “Of course.”

            In spite of himself, he grinned. “Then get the bastard a contract and let’s see him swab.”

            Thor laughed. “I’ll take it.”

            Smiling, Loki waved the officers toward the docks. “Go prepare the _Tongue_ to launch. And tell Natasha to find a fresh contract for the errant prince.” While the crew set off, he looked down at Clint, wrapping arms around his waist. “What about you?” Biting back a nervous swallow, he raised his eyebrows. “Would you like a real contract, too? Or will you be going ashore for good when we reach the colonies?”

            Sliding his arms around the captain’s neck, Clint snorted. “I don’t want a contract.”

            He could feel the captain droop. Crestfallen, Loki made to pull away. “I see.”

            “No, wait—“ Holding him close, Clint laughed. “I _mean_ —“ He took a deep breath, smiling up at the captain. “You don’t have to make me sign on the dotted line, or offer me any supernatural gifts, or anything like that. I just wanna stay with you.”

            Loki’s eyes widened, and Clint swore he saw the man light up, despite the lack of gills. Excitedly, he leaned down and kissed Clint hard, spinning him off his feet on the deck of the _Victory_. Surprised, Clint pressed into it, as dizzy from the taste of the captain’s lips as he was from the impromptu twirl. He was still giddy when Loki carried him newlywed-style across the deck of the _Tongue_ , when they were met with stares and snickers from the officers pulling her lines.

            Without missing a beat, Loki pulled open the bulkhead door and sniffed, “I don’t remember telling you to take a break.”


	20. The End

            With the American coastline just peeking over the horizon, Clint went looking for the captain in an attempt to avoid mediating an argument between Logan and Murdock about the direction of the wind. He found Loki belowdecks, rummaging through a set of drawers hidden behind the heaps of books decorating his cabin. Upon closer inspection, Clint saw that the drawer was inexplicably filled with forks of varying sizes and designs. He watched, puzzled, as the captain pulled out a few small, battered forks with familiar maker’s marks on them and added them to the collection.

            Glancing up and smiling at him, Loki pushed the drawer shut. “Did you need something, pet?”

            “No—“ Clint cocked an eyebrow. “Were those from the restaurant in Vigo?”

            “Er—yes.” The captain shifted nervously. “I only took a few.”

            “Is that for some kind of magic thing?” Clint asked, looking at the drawer with confusion.

            “Not exactly,” Loki admitted. Sheepishly, he opened the drawer below it to show off a similar collection of earrings. “Sirens hoard. Anything metallic. It’s sort of a compulsion.” He winced.

            Laughing, Clint ran a hand over the piles of pilfered earrings. “No wonder you make such a good pirate.”

            The captain played with his hands, looking away. “It does help...hang on.” He hesitated, then began digging through the cache of jewelry earnestly. “Here.” He pulled out a small stud of white gold, set with a dark blue stone filled with tiny sparkles of silver. Carefully, he polished it on his shirt and offered it to Clint with a small smile. “Take this one.”

            Clint took the stud tentatively, rolling it over in his hand. The bits of silver winked up at him like stars. “To wear?”

            “To wear, to keep, whatever you like.” Loki pushed the drawer shut, nodding encouragingly at the store. “It’s blue sandstone. From the far North, around where we scraped Logan out of the snow.” He gave a small smile, and potentially—Clint couldn’t say for sure in the dim light—blushed. “Most of my hoard is, objectively, junk. The nice pieces…I want you to have them.”

            “Well, it’s beautiful.” Looking over the earring appreciatively, Clint pinned it into the last unoccupied hole in his ear and smiled. “Thank you. I—Wait.” He narrowed his eyes at the drawers, then at Loki. “Is this a siren thing, too? Like a…mating ritual, or something?”

            The captain’s eyes widened. “Oh, God—it is, isn’t it?” Covering his face, he sank down onto the bed. “Ugh—I’m sorry. Forget the earring. I didn’t know—“

            Clint frowned. “What do you mean, you didn’t know?’

            “Well, I wasn’t exactly _raised_ underwater,” the captain groaned, laying back on the bed and covering his face with a pillow. “All I know about siren anything is from other people’s research and my own instincts. I just thought you might like something nice…I’m not trying to get you to…” He cringed. “ _Nest_.”

            Instantly regretting ever bringing it up at all, Clint sat next to him on the bed, rubbing his back half-heartedly. “It’s okay…It’s not a _bad_ thing. I think it’s sweet.”

            Loki made an indignant noise into the pillow and refused to move.

            “C’mon, don’t be like that.” Tousling his hair, Clint grinned. “I really like the earring. Was there anything else you wanted to give me?”

            The captain stopped, peeking over the edge of the pillow. “Really? You want to see?”

            He nodded, smiling encouragingly.

            Loki perked up. “A few things…”

 

            The Sons of Liberty met once again where they always did—in the secret room under the Danvers family pub. It was dim and stuffy with so many men and women packed into a tiny space, but the excited hum of an imminent victory and the pretty, smiling barmaid topping off everyone’s glasses kept the atmosphere damn near bearable. The militia captain was the only one sitting apart, watching the festivities and sipping at the foam at the top of his mug. He was also the only one to hear footsteps in the back hallway, the secret passage from the silversmith’s house that only Sons were to know about—and from what Steve could see, all the Sons were in attendance.

            Sliding away from the bar, Steve emptied his mug out on the dirt floor and hefted it, moving toward the passageway door. Stark had cast the membership steins himself, and though the heavy pewter wasn’t quite so pretty as a bayonet, it would be deterrent enough. Someone—Carol, probably—saw him move, and the laughter and shout-singing died down as the party trained their eyes on the door. Steve gritted his teeth and reached for the latch—just as the door burst open.

            “Who the _fuck_ let all you salty dogs into a nice place like this?!” The man grinning in the doorway was browned from the sun and dressed in grey-brown leather trousers, a hand-dyed purple shirt, and black boots far too heavy to be made by colonial cobblers. His sun-bleached hair was hacked short and sticking up in messy points, and he was absolutely covered in bruises, scrapes, and dingy bandages. Both his ears were pierced multiple times, and strings of gold and silver jewelry dangled from his belt. In fact, they may not have recognized him at all, if not for the bow strapped to his back.

            Stark’s half-full glass ended up on the floor along with his jaw, and he climbed onto one of the tables for a better look. “…Barton? Jesus Christ, is that _you_?”

            “You bet your silver-lickin’ ass it is.” With a snort, Clint stepped into the tavern, clapping a hand on Steve’s shoulder. “And watch your mouth. You know the Captain don’t like nasty words like that.”

            “Gone for a year and then some,” Steve grumbled, pulling him into a reluctant hug, “and you still remember Tony’s stupid jokes?”

            “Huh. Yeah.” Grinning into Steve’s shoulder, Clint patted his back. “Like I never left, right?”

            “Not quite.” Steve pulled away, scowling. “Where have you been? What have you been off doing that’s somehow more important than fighting with your fellow Americans?”

            “And who the hell did you bring back with you?” Danvers cut in, leaning over the bar and peering into the corridor, scowling. “Barton, I swear, if you sold us out—“

            “I didn’t!” he promised hastily, beckoning his friends into the pub. “These are the folks I’ve been sailing with while I was out. The crew of the _Siren’s Tongue_. Logan, Wilson, Parker, Mistress Natasha—“

            Pym, the doctor, all but toppled off his stool. “The _Siren’s Tongue_? As in the Grinning Reaper’s ship?”

            “I would certainly hope there isn’t another,” the aforementioned captain chimed in dryly, slipping into the pub from behind his crew and drilling Pym with an icy stare. “I’d hate to think my reputation was being diffused.”

            Pym made a noise like “nyuh” and swallowed hard. The other Sons seemed to recoil, watching Loki warily. Stark only scowled. “Really, Barton? Pirates? _That’s_ why you abandoned the revolution—to roam the Atlantic as a froofed-up thief?”

            “Mister Barton has provided certain necessary services aboard my ship,” Loki replied, moving through the crowd of stunned revolutionaries to stare the silversmith down. “We were reluctant to let him go.”

            Stark snorted, crossing his arms. Standing on the table gave him the only shot he had at a height advantage over the Reaper, and he used it to its fullest. “I’ll believe _that_ when I see it.”

            “And I would be inclined to show you,” the captain retorted, “but I so dislike to share him.”

            There was a long moment of silence as the silversmith processes the implication. Then he grimaced. “Wow. Gross. You know what? Keep him.”

            Loki smirked. “I planned to.”

            “Aw, save it, Stark. Ain’t no different from what you’ve been doin’ with Steve since the First Continental Congress,” Barnes drawled as he elbowed his way out of the clump of pirates. “Actually, they’re almost as noisy as you two, comin’ through the floor.”

            Gawking, Steve all but shoved Clint out of the way, reaching for the one-armed sailor. “My God…” He frowned, looking over Barnes’ patched leather clothes and shoulder-stump in confusion. “Bucky?”

            Barnes turned, puzzled, and frowned back. “Who the hell is ‘Bucky’?”

            The captain’s face fell, and he started to retreat, crushed. “I thought…”

            “Jesus, Stevie—“ Rolling his eyes, Barnes grabbed his arm and pulled him into half a hug. “I’m just fucking with you. C’mere.”

            With a huge sigh, Steve held him tightly, burying his face in Barnes’ shoulder. “Thank God,” he mumbled. Then he pulled away and scowled. “That wasn’t fucking funny, Lieutenant.”

            “God-damn, Rogers, you kiss your mother with that mouth?” With a wink, Barnes beckoned over his shoulder for Natasha. “C’mon. I want you to meet my wife.”

 

            “King George…dead?” Steve leaned back in the booth, eyes wide. “Are you sure?”

            “I dropped him into a harbour full of angry sirens,” Loki replied, cocking an eyebrow and creating a small whirlpool in his drink with the flick of a finger. “I suppose there _is_ a chance they haven’t torn him to shreds, and he may wash up on the southern coast of France, half-drowned and mad as a wet cat—in which case it’d be difficult for him to remember his own name, let alone his reign over Britain.” He yawned, plucking a fuzz from Clint’s hair and smoothing it. “Needless to say, he won’t be causing you trouble any longer.”

            “And the prince?” Danvers asked, watching the captain with hard eyes.

            “Employed on my ship. Nowhere near the throne, even if he wanted it.” Absently, the Reaper stroked Clint’s hair. The minuteman looked up to kiss his shoulder before returning to his apple pie, the one thing the _Tongue’_ s master chef had yet to uncover the mysteries of.

            Danvers wasn’t impressed. “How do we know the new administration—this Queen Charlotte—won’t be just as bad?”

            “She won’t.” A muscle in his jaw twitched, and Loki looked her dead in the eye. “You have my word.”

            “A pirate’s word is worth about as much around here as British currency,” Carol spat. “I need more than that to go on.”

            “I don’t.” Steve shot her a warning look. “Bucky says you honour your word, Reaper. That’s all I need.”

            Loki smiled. “Thank you, Captain.”

            “Of course.” Taking a deep breath, Steve seemed to brace himself. “Speaking of Bucky…as helpful as it will be to have the king gone, we’re going to need all the help we can get in this war, and with you keeping one of my best marksmen…”

            “’One of’?” Clint scowled. “I’m _easily_ the best.”

            “I understand.” Ignoring him, Loki reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and drew out a scroll sealed with dark green wax. “I am willing to suspend Barnes’ contract for the duration of the revolution.” Setting the scroll on the table, he brought out another. “And the Duchess Natalia’s, as well. I think they’ve been separated quite long enough, and as reluctant as I am to subject myself once again to an all-male crew, I know she will be immensely helpful to your cause.”

            “Just ‘til the war’s over?” the captain asked, raising an eyebrow hopefully.

            Loki smiled. “Heavens, no—you’re building a new _nation_ , Captain Rogers. To win the war is only the beginning; there is immeasurable work to be done in the aftermath. You and Barnes work so well together, and Natasha is such an exceptional coordinator that I wouldn’t dream of taking them away prematurely.” He pushed the contracts across the table to Steve. “The _Tongue_ will be docking on your shores again, Captain. Any time they’d like to leave with her, all they need do is bring their contracts back aboard and I’m happy to lift the suspension.”

            Steve breathed a sigh of relief, pulling the rolled-up contracts over. “Thank you. You have no idea how much this means to me.”

            “Don’t be so sure of that.” Loki winked. “My merciless reputation is only _half_ -deserved, I assure you.”

            “Be that as it may, I know it’s a lot for you to just give away two officers,” Steve countered, raising an eyebrow. “And I can’t help but wonder if there’s a price I’ll be expected to pay for this down the line.”

            “Since we’re on the subject of your reputation,” Carol added coolly.

            Loki bristled for a second, and Clint looked up worriedly. But the Reaper shook it off, sitting back in his seat and inspecting his nails. “It’s true that finding another pair that works together as well as those two will be no easy task. But Murdock has sense enough about him to take over as boatswain, and I’m more than confident in my next quartermaster.” Reaching down to squeeze Clint’s hand, he gave a small smile. “I see no cause to make this agreement into anything more than an act of good will, Captain.” He gave Steve a too-innocent look. “Do you?”

            “This isn’t a deal?” the captain asked carefully, still pinning the contracts to the table, but not yet taking them. “You’re not gonna show back up when the war’s over to collect on my soul?”

            Loki rolled his eyes dismissively. “Binding souls is such an ugly habit. One I plan to break, moving forward. Just take good care of my officers, Rogers, and you’ll have nothing to fear from me.”

            Relaxing visibly, Steve took the contracts. “Glad to hear it.” Stuffing them into his coat pocket, he stole a glance at Clint. “Safe to assume you’re keeping Barton for yourself?”

            “Are you kiddin’ me?” Clint cut in, grinning and resting his head on the captain’s shoulder. “You think he could function without me?”


End file.
